


Tempus Fugit

by Margaret Ann (Manderson)



Category: Chrono Trigger, Final Fantasy VII, Star Ocean: Till the End of Time, Suikoden
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Butterfly Effect, Competition, Crossover, Day At The Beach, Death, F/M, First Dates, Gen, Insanity, M/M, Reality TV, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-05-25 06:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 42,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14971442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann
Summary: A depressed Gremio gets it in his head that he and Magus would be better dates for NekoNeechan than either Sephiroth or Albel. He convinces Magus to help him get the chance to prove his worth. How? Time travel, of course! But one thing leads to another, and soon they're all in over their heads. Will they ever find a way to set the world to rights, or is everything already screwed up for good?





	1. Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prophetic_Fortune_Cookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prophetic_Fortune_Cookie/gifts).



“What?”

He must’ve heard the scowl in Magus’ voice, jerking up the way he did. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at me for at least eighteen minutes, which is about seventeen and a half more than is socially acceptable. Tell me what’s going on.” He hooked a chair with his foot and sat down, legs splayed.

Gremio frantically resumed dicing vegetables on the cutting board for his roux. “N-nothing.” The knife flashed for a second before a red gush splashed the minced carrot, onion, and celery. The blonde man yelped with pain and clamped a tea towel over it. Tears rose unshed in his gray eyes.

Magus sighed and muttered a brief incantation he’d picked up years ago. A green glow suffused Gremio’s hand. Relief flooded the pale cheeks, and Gremio gently folded up the cloth before depositing it in a basket by the sink. “Thanks. I’ll wash it later.”

“Of course you will,” Magus agreed, knowing that by morning, any evidence of the accident would be long scrubbed away. He watched the golden tail sway down his old friend’s back as he dumped the ruined mess down the garbage disposal and grabbed a fresh cutting board and vacuum-sealed container of ingredients. Before Gremio could resume chopping, Magus swiped the knife from the counter. “ _ After _ you tell me what’s going on.”

The slight man seemed to waver. A myriad of complex emotions crossed his face. Magus could practically see the hamster wheels churning as Gremio tried to find a satisfactory, yet vague answer. 

A long moment passed before he gave in. “It’s those contests.”

“What about them?” Magus murmured another incantation, and heat radiated off the blade. He brushed flecks of instantly-dried blood into the waste bin.

“It just seems unfair. You know I’m not one to complain—”

Magus couldn’t quite restrain his snort.

Gremio glared. “But it doesn’t seem right that first Sephiroth, then Albel would win. I love NekoNeechan, too. I would make a much better partner for her. I could take her on a date she could be proud of.”

The mage passed the knife over, hilt-first. “I don’t know. Maybe you could. But you didn’t get to.”

“I know. Because Sephiroth and Albel won. They both had their chance. I just feel like I, too, should have that chance. Who knows which of us NekoNeechan would truly pick if she had the chance to go on a date with all of us, not just have us compete?”

It was hard logic to argue with. In fact, Magus himself had followed the same path of reasoning several times before on long, sleepless nights. He couldn’t help but wonder if everything might be different now if he’d won either (though, preferably the latter) competition. “The Hot Dates were years ago,” he said instead in the most reasonable tone he could manage. “Seph won. He got to go out with NekoNeechan. Then Albel won, and they’ve seemed pretty happy together ever since. Not even ‘Sephykun’ can argue that Pinky wasn’t a better choice.”

“And have you spoken with him lately to confirm this?” Gremio said, chopping a carrot with more force than strictly necessary. 

“Nope. Haven’t seen him.”

“Neither have I.” He scraped the carrot mash to the side and assaulted a stick of celery. “But I spoke to him online a few days ago, and he’s more miserable than anyone else I’ve been around.”

Magus’ pointed ears perked up. “Oh? What did he say?”

“That he was fine.” 

The clock on the wall ticked noisily as Magus tried to decide what to say.

Gremio looked up. “I know you don’t think that means anything, but Sephiroth was never just ‘fine.’ He was angry or hungry or full of childlike joy. He was never ‘fine.’ ‘Fine’ is the kind of thing you say because you don’t want to talk to anyone about why you’re decidedly  _ not _ fine.”

Faultless logic, for sure. Magus cleared his throat. “So what do you want to do? Because I don’t think having another contest is an option. Even if MC was interested in getting everyone back together, NekoNeechan seems happy in her choice. There’s no reason for us to upset her equilibrium.”

“No…” Gremio said. He finished dicing the last of the vegetables and swept them into a cast-iron pan. “But I think I might know how we can prove that she could’ve done better.”

“How?” Magus leaned forward, inwardly surprised at his excitement for the answer.

Gremio smiled a small, catlike smile and asked in his sweetest, gentlest voice, “Do you still talk to Lucca?”


	2. Quid Pro Quo

“Wait, run that by me again. More slowly, please.” Lucca crossed her arms over her ample chest as she surveyed the men before her.

Magus shrugged and nodded towards Gremio. “Don’t ask me. He’s the one who insisted we come here.”

“Using the portal MC left for you. Right.” The inventor turned her Coke-bottle gaze on Gremio, who seemed to shrink back slightly. “You tell me, then.”

Gremio cleared his throat delicately and said, “We think NekoNeechan can make a better choice. She deserves a better kind of man than Albel or Sephiroth.”

“And somehow you’ve gotten it in your heads that one or the other of you is the ‘correct’ choice.” 

“Well, when you put it like  _ that _ ,” Magus said, his voice trailing off amidst the clanking machinery and whirring gears. He absently scratched the purpley skin of his forearm. He hadn’t known what to expect when he showed up on his former battle companion’s doorstep half an hour earlier; of all his compatriots, he and Lucca had never exactly hit it off. There was something mercenary about her that made his stomach churn. Now, standing in her workshop, staring at her as she listened to Gremio’s rambling explanation, Magus couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was definitely going wrong. Or would be going wrong. Whatever it was, there was a whole feeling of wrongness about it. He’d spent much of his youth ignoring feelings like that, but now that he was older, he wasn’t entirely convinced that his previous attitude hadn’t contributed to his current situation.

I.e. Single and living alone with a fastidious, seemingly-desperate roommate.

“...So we were wondering if you still had that Time Key thing and we could borrow it.” The end of Gremio’s speech jarred Magus back to reality, and he put on his most doleful expression with hope that it would expedite the process. Or, at the very least, help them get a favorable response. A glance at his blonde companion told him that Gremio had come up with the same idea on his own.

Lucca adjusted her glasses. “And what do I get in return for helping you out?”

“Huh?”

She leveled her gaze at Gremio. “I can’t just  _ give _ you the Time Key, even to borrow. Actually, I shouldn’t give it to you at all. One tiny change can affect reality in incredible ways. You should know that already, Magus.” 

The magician tried not to wither too visibly under her stare.

“Anyone who holds the Time Key will remember the world before the changes as well as after. I don’t like the idea of not knowing what’s different about my life. I’m fairly happy with it as it is.”

“Come with us, then,” Gremio offered, his voice practically dripping with desperation. “That way you can remember and, if we ruin everything, then you can help us put it back to rights.” 

There was no way for Magus to pull his roommate aside and tell him exactly how idiotic that idea was. Aside from the fact that he trusted Lucca less than his own mother, he wasn’t about to stop being NekoNeechan’s boyfriend when they made their minute change in the past. Go through all that work just to change it back a few minutes later? Fuck that noise. 

But short of tackling the buxom inventor, pinning her down, and prying the whereabouts of the Time Key from her, he didn’t exactly have a better plan.

Magus plastered on his pre-practiced puppy eyes, feeling a tiny piece of his soul withering away inside.

Lucca tapped her lip with an oil-stained fingertip, then shrugged. “I suppose that’ll work.” She tugged on a chain around her neck, and a gold filigree key appeared. It glimmered in the steady glow of the electric lights in her workshop. Magus couldn’t help but marvel at the intricate curves of the metal, even though he’d seen it before. It never failed to amaze him that something so delicate could have been made by someone so...not.

He shook the thoughts away and held out his hand. “Let’s go, then.”

Lucca clutched the Time Key close to her chest. “No way am I letting you drive, fiend. I still haven’t forgiven you for what happened with Frog.”

Magus rolled his eyes. “It was a million years ago—”

“Even a million years can feel like yesterday when you’re angry,” Lucca responded with a superior note in her voice.

“Whatever. It’s history.” Magus squelched down the guilty feelings rising in his gut.  _ Neither the time nor the place. _

Gremio, luckily, stepped forward. “Let’s go. I want to make it better.”

“A man of my own heart.” Lucca held up the key, muttered a few words, and the world dissolved around them.


	3. Praemonitus Praemunitus

Almost as abruptly as the swirling began it ended, leaving Magus with an ache in his skull and blind spots in his vision. He clawed at them desperately, digging his knuckles into his eyes and ignoring the final, brilliant afterimages that made his stomach churn. “I forgot how much I hate that,” he muttered.

“It’s not that bad,” Lucca retorted, adjusting her glasses. “And nothing worthwhile ever came without a modicum of pain.”

Magus bit back a snarky comment about showing  _ her _ pain. It wouldn’t do to antagonize the driver. That lesson had been long in coming. His eyes were adjusting to the strange half-light of the room, and he heard thuds and thumps somewhere outside. 

Gremio strode with an unusual confidence over towards the door and peeked out. After a moment, he gestured wildly to the pair. “This is it!” he hissed.

“What is?” Magus walked over and listened. Down the hall, he could hear a familiar voice announcing something about a competition…”MC?”

“Shh! It’s the finale.”

“How can you tell?” asked Magus with surprise. That the Time Key would be so accurate was even weirder than Gremio’s newfound bravado. He glanced at Lucca, who leaned against the wall and picked at her nails. 

“MC is talking about how the Hot Date contest started, and she just mentioned that tonight we’re all performing a song for NekoNeechan. We only did that during the finale, at least for the first contest.”

The memory of awkwardly singing along to “I’ll Be There for You” rose up in Magus’s mind, and he just as quickly squelched it down. No need to dwell on something awful that happened years earlier. “So now what?” he asked instead.

Here his blond roommate faltered. “Um…”

Without looking up, Lucca said, “Why don’t you just switch the envelopes?”

Magus and Gremio stared at her, mouths agape.

She pushed herself off the wall with a heavy sigh. “MC’s got those envelopes with the people getting kicked off, right? I watched this whole debacle, too, back in the day. So she gets those envelopes and reads the name and the loser gets booted.”

“Yes…” Magus had chosen to suppress most of this, too. Being the first one knocked out of the competition hadn’t been pleasant.

“So go take those envelopes and switch them around. Change the order or the cards inside so one of you wins.”

Cheating didn’t sound right to Magus, but Gremio nodded with enthusiasm. “Where might they be, do you think?”

“Somewhere close by, probably,” Lucca replied. “Close enough to the stage that MC wouldn’t need to go far to get them.”

“What if there’s someone guarding them? I wouldn’t blame MC for thinking of something like that.” Magus put one fist on his hip, trying to figure out just how many thugs the host might have hired or conjured for the final episode.

“One of us can distract them while the other does the actual switching. I guess we’ll decide when we get there which one of us gets which job.”

Before Magus could respond with a list of doubts half a mile long, Gremio had slipped through the door. The magician followed as closely as he could, his boots making itchy shuffling noises along the ancient, industrial-grade carpet. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, reflecting dully off striped wallpaper fuzzy with age. The whole place smelled of disuse covered in a film of Febreeze, like the entire building had been given a French bath before opening for hosting. 

Gremio crept along down the corridor before Magus, breathing silently and peeking into each room as he went. “Dressing room...dressing room...storage room...where is it?”

“We’d better hurry. The farther we get from Lucca, the longer it’ll take us to get back after switching the envelopes,” Magus whispered.

“I know that. But if we don’t find them at all, how can we switch them?” Gremio opened another door a fraction of an inch. “Another dressing room. I don’t remember there being anywhere near as many last time we were here.”

Suddenly, pair of clomping boots sounded on the floor behind them. Magus looked around, nudging Gremio. “Quick, hide!” he hissed.

His roommate slipped into the room without another word. The magician’s mind was whirling almost as much as it had when they’d first arrived; what would he say to whoever it was? How was he going to explain his presence? How would he distract them long enough to prevent Gremio and himself from getting caught? He fought down a wave of nausea.

The footsteps grew louder, and Magus took one, final deep breath as a familiar figure came into view.


	4. In Situ

Magus took a deep breath as the figure turned the corner. Though younger—almost ten years younger, of course—the olive green eyes and straw-blond hair were familiar to him. Despite the fancy clothes and expensive headset he wore, Magus would know him almost anywhere.

Locke Cole.

He looked up from his clipboard just before slamming into Magus, sidestepping him with a smoothness born from long practice sneaking around. “Holy hell, don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry,” Magus said, folding his face into an appropriately sheepish expression. He eased his way slightly more in front of the door.

“You should be.” Locke tugged a pencil from behind his ear and ran it through an item on the list. “That part’s over…” He looked up, eyes suddenly wide. “Shit. Magus. What are you doing here?”

“Um...just trying to find a bathroom?”

“A bathroom? Are you kidding me?” Locke glanced up at a clock on the wall, then back at his clipboard. Magus’ eyes followed Locke’s to the clock, but before he could register the time, the treasure hunter grabbed his arm and began dragging him down the corridor. “God, MC’s gonna kill me...didn’t you hear the all-call? I told your handler to come get you fifteen minutes ago. Who’s your handler?”

“Um…” Magus tried to think back to the days of the competition. He and the others had lived in a house together, but when they were recording on set, they’d each been assigned a person to keep an eye on them. Locke had helped MC run everything, and MC had kept NekoNeechan out of the way...Albel had had the guy with the braid, Gremio had had the martial artist from China, Sephiroth had had the robot dude, since they were from the same world… “Um...the guy who turns into a pig?”

Locke swore under his breath. “Ryoga. Figures. I’m gonna kill him when I see him. I should’ve told him to turn right instead of left.” 

“Maybe. But what’s going on?”

“The first elimination.” Locke stopped at one of the rooms and ducked inside. A moment later he returned with a creamy-white envelope, and he made another mark on his clipboard. “Okay, got the result…” He began walking quickly once more.

Magus glanced at the door to memorize any distinguishing features. A handmade sign ordered all contestants to keep out. He stored that tidbit away to tell Gremio whenever he managed to escape.

“Hurry up!” Locke hissed. He waved frantically at the magician before striding away.

Magus hesitated, debating whether he should try to change any envelopes around now.  _ I’ll just get caught if I try _ , he decided. Instead, he muttered an incantation to give the paper a greenish glow, hoping that Gremio would recognize the feel of freshly-cast magic. He jogged after the assistant director.

He caught up just in time to see Locke disappear into another room. He followed inside, and his heart stalled in his throat at the sight. His old friends lounged around the craft services station. Gremio, the young Gremio, nervously straightened up plates and platters of food, wiping his hands every so often on a handkerchief he pulled from one pocket. Sephiroth sat in a folding chair, jiggling his foot and tapping his fingers on the old, vinyl-topped card table someone had set up for diners. Albel leaned against the wall, the disaffected expression on his face belying the nervous energy wafting from him. The trio looked up as Magus entered.

“Oh, dear! Magus, what happened to your suit? Did you get it dirty?” young Gremio gasped. “If it did, why didn’t you come find me or go to the dressing department? I’m sure they could have found something fresh for you to wear!”

Magus looked down at his old, gray hoodie and jeans with the knees ripped out and felt immediately like throwing up. The first time he’d been here on finale night he’d worn an expensive blue suit he’d bought for the occasion. Now, even considering Albel’s tuxedo t-shirt, Magus was definitely the most underdressed person in the room. He swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Why not be comfortable? NekoNeechan loves being comfortable. She might see this and appreciate it.”

“Like it matters,” Albel muttered. “Votes are all tallied anyway. I don’t see why MC can’t just tell us who’s out instead of dragging this whole thing on for hours on end.”

“Ratings,” Sephiroth replied with a shrug. He tugged on the sleeve of his tailed jacket. “MC spent a lot of money running this thing, and unless she wants to end on a loss, she needs to earn as much as possible. Nothing like suspense to drum up viewership.”

“Yeah, nothing like it,” Locke said. “Now...right, that’s the cue. All of you, line up in order and head for the stage.” She’s about to announce it. Remember, smile for the cameras, pretend like NekoNeechan can actually see you, and try not to embarrass yourselves.”

Magus tried to recall where he’d stood in relation to the others, but he needn’t have worried. Gremio placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the door. “I’m nervous, too,” the young man said, his eyes wide and shiny with terror. “But the only way to deal with that is just get through it.”

“Right. Get through it.” Magus swallowed hard. He wanted to tell the others that he’d already gotten through it ten years earlier.

And even after ten years, he still didn’t look forward to hearing his name called first.


	5. Non Sum Qualis Eram

MC was giving her speech about the prior episodes of the competition, the same trite platitudes she had spouted each time. Nonsense about how the competitors had all tried their best and should be honored for their attempts, but there could only be one winner and that was the nature of the game. She held the envelope in her hand, crisp and cream-colored, and launched into her final prepared speech.

“Now it’s time to reveal the first contestant to be eliminated from the running.”

“Nooooo!” NekoNeechan wailed plaintively.

“You knew this was coming,” admonished the redhead. “Not everyone can win. You understand that.”

“Yeah, but it’s not fair. I want all my guys to win.” NekoNeechan thrust out her lower lip in the comical pout that Magus had always found one of her most endearing expressions.

He could almost see MC holding back an immediate response of “too bad” from the twitch of her mouth. Instead, she said, “And now, the first person to lose NekoNeechan’s Hot Date is…” 

The magician’s heart thudded in his chest just as it had years earlier. Knowing the outcome didn’t make it any better. He knew his name would be called because he hadn’t had a chance to switch the envelopes, and any switching that his-time-Gremio might do wouldn’t matter, since the offending envelope was already clutched in MC’s chubby fingers.

His fate had been sealed years ago.

He stared at the ground in front of the camera ten feet away, resisting the urge to close his eyes.

On the set across the room, MC slid one nail under the flap of the envelope. The paper made a scratchy sound as she pulled it out.

His fists clenched at his sides.

The seconds ticked by. A bead of sweat trickled from his hairline, tracing an uneven path down his forehead and over one sharp cheekbone.

“...Sephiroth!”

The world spun as Magus’ head whipped up. That couldn’t have been right. What the actual...there was no way. He looked at Sephiroth to his left. The silver-haired man stood ramrod straight, but all the blood had drained from his face. His Mako-tinged eyes were even greener and more luminous for the paleness of the skin around them.

From across the room came a strange keening, a distressed wailing rising from NekoNeechan’s throat. It was the kind of sound that pierced Magus to his very soul, and he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. HIs mind was a blank aside from the sound and a single flickering thought:  _ How am I still here? _

The others, ten-years-ago-Gremio and -Albel, shared an uneasy look. Gremio stepped forward to give Sephiroth an awkward hug; Albel, on the other hand, looked like he was trying not to smile. He stepped back so Sephiroth could stumble past on shaking legs as MC’s voice rang out, “Thank you to Sephiroth for an amazing competition. After this commercial break, we’ll go to Gogo for an in-depth interview with him and his feelings about this turn of events!”

The red light on top of the camera shut off with a clank, and the operator stepped out from behind it. Other people began moving back and forth with props, microphones, and other accoutrement of television production.

MC in her long, blue dress, came walking over. Her bare feet padded on the tile, and she carried her black wedge heels in one hand. “You guys have ten minutes before your performance. I need you all to get changed and warmed up. I’ll tell Locke to send your handlers to get you, but I’m going to need you to hurry. You’re all doing that  _ Friends _ song, right?”

“Right,” Albel replied, cracking the knuckles on his good hand.

“Do you think Sephiroth will be able to participate given…?” Gremio ventured.

MC shrugged. “He’d better be. He’s on first bass.” She turned to Magus. “You’re warmed up, too, aren’t you? Been drinking tea like I suggested?”

Magus swallowed hard and nodded, his purple hair flopping into his face. “Y-yeah. Since yesterday.”

She squinted at him. “I didn’t say anything until this morning when you got here.”

“Oh, right, I know that,” Magus stammered around the pit in his stomach. “I mean, I read somewhere it was good to do. Probably before my, uh, Christmas song. Right? Yeah. So I started yesterday, and you reminded me this morning, which was good, so, um, thank you?”

MC stared at him. Her eyes traveled up and down his body. Magus was struck with gratitude that, though old and frayed, his sweatshirt was at least unstained and hid the bit of tummy that’d snuck up on him since moving in with Gremio several years earlier. He resisted the urge to suck in his cheeks and slick his slightly thinner hair back the way he’d used to wear it.

Finally, she stepped back. “I don’t know what you’re trying here, but make sure you hit wardrobe instead of going to your dressing room. This is the finale, dude. Have some class.” A light on the wall buzzed insistently, and she nodded to the trio. “Hurry up. I have to bring this thing back from commercial.” She turned and, walking away, shouted, “Let’s go, people! We’ve got a finale to record!”

Albel and Gremio trotted off through the door, and Magus resisted the urge to crumble into a heap on the ground. He’d scraped past by the skin of his teeth, and he needed to get back to Gremio—his-era Gremio—and Lucca to see what they had to say. Somehow, the past had changed. What the future might be, he had no idea.  


	6. Ignorare Publicae, Tendunt Privatis

Magus hung back to let other-era-Albel and -Gremio to walk past. The red light was flashing again, and an airhorn shattered the magician from his misery. Regardless of  _ how _ he’d managed to make it to the next round—rather, how his past self had—he needed to find his companions. They might know what was going on. He followed them through the heavy steel door.

The corridor was empty, and his sneakers scuffed softly on the rug. Even Locke was nowhere to be seen. Noise from the recording stage faded off as he walked away.

He hadn’t gone far, though, when a different kind of sound caught his attention. It was strange, like a dying cat crossed with a giant snake. He’d encountered both in his time, but thinking back on his experiences in the Hot Date competition, he was fairly certain that there hadn’t been any felinonagas anywhere. He shook his head and kept walking.

The noise didn’t stop. In fact, it felt like it was in his ear. He dug one finger in, hoping he wasn’t coming down with some strange ten-years-earlier plague or something brought on from time travel. So intent on his discomfort was he that he nearly shrieked when something latched onto his sleeve and dragged him into a darkened room.

The door slamming shut behind him was like a cannon in his ears.

Someone flipped a switch, and Magus looked around blearily. Gremio—modern-day Gremio, if the green t-shirt and yellow plait were to be trusted—stepped away from the light switch, an eager look in his eyes. “Well? Where were you? You just shoved me in that room and vanished. What happened?”

“I was caught,” Magus admitted.  

“By who?” Lucca asked, resting her hand on the pistol at her hip. “Do we need to make a run for it?”

Magus shook his head. “I don’t think so. I ended up onstage, though, instead of my past self.”

His roommate’s eyes widened in alarm. “Did they figure it out? That it wasn’t really you from back then?”

“I don’t think so. MC told me to change into something nicer, but that was about it.”

Gremio visibly relaxed, and Lucca crossed her arms over her chest. “That wasn’t all. I can see it on your face.”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. He took a deep breath and stared at the mottled carpet on the floor. “Remember, Grem, how it was me who got eliminated first? In our timeline?”

Warily the blond nodded.

“It was Sephiroth this time.”

“What?!” Gremio’s exclamation was louder than he must have intended; he clamped his hands over his mouth to prevent further noise. 

Lucca took over. “Who was it, then?”

“Sephiroth.” Magus caught Gremio’s eye and shook his head. “I know. I still can’t believe it.”

“Didn’t he win last time?” Magus nodded, and the inventor shrugged. “Then you obviously did what you set out to do. We can go home now.”

Gremio seemed to regain control of himself, and he slowly moved his hands from his face. “Not necessarily. Albel is still in the running.”

“And I didn’t actually  _ do _ anything,” Magus added.

Lucca shrugged again. “You were caught. Who got you, by the way?”

“Locke. He was running everything backstage for MC that night. This night. Whatever.”

“And how did he seem when he found you?”

“Stressed out, I guess. He was angry that my handler hadn’t gotten me like he’d been told, but to be fair, Ryoga has the worst sense of direction of everyone I’ve ever encountered on any world. But Locke was muttering something, then stepped in here—that’s why I marked it for you, he came out with an envelope—and then took me to the stage for the reveal.”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “The most likely explanation is that Locke was so flustered that he simply grabbed the wrong envelope. Did they all look like this on the outside?” She gestured to the other blank envelopes.

“It did,” he confirmed.

“Then there really is nothing to worry about.” Lucca reached into a pouch on her belt, withdrew a stub of pencil, and scribbled something on the remaining three envelopes. “Problem solved. We can go back now.” She stacked them neatly.

“But how do you know which envelope is which?” Gremio asked worriedly. “What if you just marked Albel’s as the winner's?”

Lucca pointed at the folded placards above each envelope. “They look like they were originally in order. One was missing. I mean, not just one envelope, though that’s obvious, but the one under the placard labeled ‘one’ was missing. I assume that was the envelope with Sephiroth’s name inside. Then, I can deduce that ‘two’ is Albel, since he had second place, and ‘three’ is yours, Gremio, and ‘four’ belongs to Magus.”

The magician peered at the pile. “So whose did you label first place?”

Before she could answer, footsteps clomped in the hallway just outside the door. “Later!” Lucca hissed. She tugged the Time Key from her bodice and held it aloft. A portal appeared in front of the table, swirling with teal and violet energies. Gremio and Magus ducked in, followed by the inventor, and the trio hurtled back to the future.


	7. Non Progredi Est Regredi

The swirling portal vanished abruptly, dumping the Magus, Gremio, and Lucca back in her workshop. Gremio staggered slightly and leaned against the wall, holding onto a shelving unit for balance. Magus examined his hands to determine whether they were the same size or not. Something about them felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason.

Lucca, for her part, calmly tucked the Time Key back under the collar of her shirt. “Thank you for the diversion, guys,” she said primly. “Be safe getting back home.” 

Magus wasn’t necessarily the savviest at reading people, but even he could tell when he was being dismissed. “Thanks,” he replied. He offered his hand to Gremio and led his roommate into the sunshine outside.

Gremio leaned heavily against Magus as they made their way towards the teleport point between worlds. MC had designated several of the points to make it easier for everyone to interact following the Hot Date competition, and the point outside of Truce saw quite a bit of foot traffic, despite being located in the hills beyond town.

Now, though, Magus wondered if it might be too far out of town. Gremio’s breath came in wheezy gasps, and he coughed a few times. Once he bent nearly double from a fit of sticky coughs that left him gasping for air. His cheeks were flushed high on the bone, and a clammy sweat had broken out on his forehead.

Alarmed, Magus eased his roommate to the ground. “What’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling. The first tendrils of panic twisted his stomach into an ugly knot.

Gremio spat thick gobs of mucus into the dirt and sucked in huge lungfuls of air. “I...I’m sorry,” he croaked. “That was strange. All of the sudden I couldn’t breathe.”

“Yeah.” Magus took a deep breath himself as proper color began returning to his friend’s skin. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am.” Gremio slowly pushed himself back up, holding on to Magus’ arm for support. “I haven’t traveled through time before today. That must be why I handled it badly.”

“Must be,” echoed Magus. He watched as Gremio dusted off the knees of his pants and adjusted his shirt. “We can get someone to check you out when we get home.”

“Oh, no! That won’t be necessary. I’m feeling better now, really.” The tiny cough that punctuated Gremio’s sentence made Magus think otherwise, but the magician knew better than to continue arguing. He’d call in Liukan or someone to do a full check up on both of them.

The portal hummed merrily when the two men approached a few minutes later. Light danced around it, as if recognizing the pair as approved travelers. Unlike traveling through time, voyaging between worlds was as easy and painless as stepping from one room to the next. There was no electric charge rushing through his veins or unholy wind whipping his hair against his face; instead, they stepped from the summery breeze of the mountainside to the salt air of the seaside. Magus could feel all the tension leave his limbs as the familiar air filled his lungs; while he might not be a native of Gremio’s homeworld, it’d more than become home in the almost ten years he’d lived there.

Gremio, too, seemed to draw strength from being back in familiar environs, and he strode, smiling, towards North Window. Years earlier it had been a fortress, the bastion of Riou and the New State Army in the fight against the Highland Empire. Now, though, it was a bustling town, peaceful and welcoming to all those who were willing to live in harmony. The dirt road turned to gravel, then cobbles as the pair passed through the imposing gates. They always stood open nowadays, and pennants were strung across the arch, green and gold. Something nagged Magus in the back of his mind, and the feeling of  _ wrongness _ made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. He itched them absently, following Gremio as the man led them down the narrow streets to the cottage they’d long since claimed as their own.

The maroon door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and Magus dutifully kicked off his canvas sneakers just inside the entryway. A fire crackled invitingly on the flagstone hearth in the sitting room to his left, a sight which gave Magus pause. It wasn’t exactly mid-summer outside, but it wasn’t nearly cool enough to justify using the fireplace. The chairs seemed like they were at slightly different angles, too, and a crocheted blanket hung on the back of one. Magus could have sworn he’d never seen it before.

Slowly he walked into the sitting room to examine it more closely. The stitches were lumpy and uneven, tight in some places and loose in others. The yarn was bumpy where it had obviously been unraveled and re-knit to fix a mistake. Even so, it seemed warm and cozy. The kind of thing perfect for a fall day with a book and some hot cider...not a late afternoon in June. He looked around, peering closely at the decorations and pictures hanging on the wall. He stepped closer to a jumble of wooden frames, squinting against the flickering light of the fire. They weren’t— 

The padding of bare feet on bare floorboards behind him rattled him from his head. A familiar voice said, “Gremio? I didn’t hear you—” The footsteps skidded to a halt. “Magus? Is that you? What’re you doing here?”

Feeling like he was underwater, Magus turned around.


	8. Pro Bono

He hadn’t seen her in ages—not in his own time, anyway—yet every feature, every dimple and curve of her cheek was as familiar to him as his own. Her chestnut hair was longer now and sprinkled with a few gray strands at the temples. Her tired eyes were etched with lines behind a pair of round wireframe glasses. Her clothes were practical, a tunic and trousers and leather belt obviously made in this world rather than brought from her own.

And she was still as stunningly beautiful as she’d always been.

“Magus?” she said again, voice tinged now with worry rather than confusion.

He swallowed hard, realizing he’d been staring. “NekoNeechan,” he managed. “I’m sorry. Yeah, it’s me.”

She looked him up and down, taking in the raggedy sweatshirt and frayed jeans. Then, without warning, she flew towards him. Her arms snaked around his waist in a hug that knocked the air from his lungs, and he could’ve sworn she nuzzled him. Slowly, he wrapped his long arms around her and buried his face in the top of her head. She still smelled the same, too: baking bread, a bit of wine, and apple cider vinegar. All the words he wished to tell her caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes.

A moment later she broke off the hug, stepping away. “Why are you here? I told you to send a message or something before you visit, in case—” She looked around the room. “Is Gremio here?”

“He should be,” Magus replied, his arms aching unexpectedly at her absence from them. “He came back with me.”

Her head turned sharply. “He was with you?”

“Yeah. We just got back.” He stopped himself before telling her where they’d been; NekoNeechan had always been fairly easy-going (another of his favorite traits of hers), but even something like this she might take umbrage to. 

“‘Got back’?” she repeated. More worry lines appeared on her forehead as she narrowed her eyes. “Got back from where? You took him someplace? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ask first? Why—?”

Before she could finish her barrage of questions, Gremio stepped into the room. He was bent slightly, and his skin was tinged a strange, sickly green color. He steadied himself on the doorjamb.

NekoNeechan pushed past Magus to run to his side. “Gremmy, what are you doing up? And dressed? Magus said you went somewhere with him. You know you’re supposed to check with me first before you do that!” Her gentle chastisement continued as she slipped under his left arm and tucked it around her shoulders. Supporting his weight, she slowly eased him towards one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. “Can you get that for me?” she asked Magus, nodding towards the crocheted blanket. Mind whirling, he pulled it out of the way. NekoNeechan lowered Gremio into the chair with the practiced motions of a long-time nurse. With a flourish, she took the blanket and whirled it around him, tucking it into the cushions on either side. “Better?” she asked.

Gremio looked up at her with watery eyes and nodded slightly.

“Good.” She brushed his cheek with her hand, and he leaned into it, brushing a papery kiss onto the heel of her hand. 

They remained like that long enough that Magus shifted uncomfortably and turned away. The ache in his heart at the simple, unconscious gestures were enough to cut through his confusion about the circumstances.

He felt a hand on his elbow, and he looked down, NekoNeechan nodded towards the door, and he followed her as silently as possible into the hallway. As she closed the door behind them, he caught a glimpse of his roommate dozing in the chair.

No sooner had it shut when she shoved him against the wall. “What in God’s name were you  _ thinking _ ?” Her voice came out in a hiss with all the intensity of a shout.

“I...what?” Magus stammered. The chair rail dug into his lower spine painfully.

“Coming here, first of all. What are you doing here?”

“I told you…” He shifted, trying to adjust where the sharp edge of the wood was hitting. “I was just, er, coming back with Gremio, and—”

She stepped forward. Her breath was hot on his skin. “That’s another thing. What were you doing with Gremio?”

Magus’ mind raced, trying to find an explanation that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Changing timelines was an MC no-no rule, and surely NekoNeechan would side with her best friend on that. “I…”

“You know it’s dangerous for him to go out, or get any sort of exertion, and you took him somewhere? And you didn’t check with me first? You didn’t even bother to say hi to me, forget checking whether he was having a good day or a bad day? What were you  _ thinking _ ?”

“I, uh, just wanted to talk to him?”

She stepped away. “Then talk to him here. When he has the energy, and when I’m here to step in if I need to.” She looked down at her feet, but not before Magus caught the flash of tears in her eyes. “What you did today, taking him out of here...you could’ve killed him.” 


	9. Quid Agis

“I—I didn’t know.” The words fell from Magus’ lips, but he barely registered them. The racking cough that left his friend doubled over in the dirt—the watery eyes—the way he could scarcely walk in a straight line...of course he was sick. Magus had seen as much. It’s why he wanted to get Liukan to look at Gremio when they got back. Sick, yes, but chronically? Sooner-rather-than-later fatally? All of the pieces were falling into place. 

All but one.

“What happened?” he whispered.

NekoNeechan eyed him warily. “He’s getting worse is what happened. Of course. Like you wouldn’t know that.”

He swallowed back his fear at her tone. “It’s been a very strange day for me. My head is all jumbled up, and, uh, it’s been awhile. Please just remind me. Explain to me like I’ve never heard any of it before.”

She turned and motioned for him to follow. Their bare feet padded on the well-worn floorboards, all the rough edges smoothed by years of similarly unclad steps. The kitchen was much as he was used to: wooden table with seats on one side and a long bench on the other, though this one had a captain’s chair at the head. The counter still stood under the window, almost glowing as late-afternoon sunshine poured through it like lemonade from a pitcher. A pot simmered on the wood-fired stove, and a stoneware bowl stood nearby, the tea-towel covering it rounded slightly at the top. Dough for bread, if Magus had to guess from all the times Gremio had baked it. Over-risen, though, it seemed. 

With good reason, if NekoNeechan’s behavior was to be trusted. She sank wearily into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and propped her head up with her fists. “After the Hot Date contest, we went on our date, right? He decided he wanted to take me on a tour of the Dunan River, completely ignoring the fact that I get really seasick, right? Well, I’m bent over, hurling my guts into the depths, when some monster attacks. It grabbed me and tried to pull me in. Grem was there, too, of course, and he attacked full-out. It kept trying to drag me down, so he jumped in the river and attacked it.” She reached over and picked up a salt shaker shaped like a kobold. She fiddled with it, eyes firmly on the battered tabletop. “He was under the water so long, we all thought he might not be coming back up. When he finally did, he was unconscious. About a gallon of water came out of him when we finally got him breathing again. He didn’t wake up for eighteen days.” 

She tipped the kobold, and a small hill of salt poured out of its mouth. Returning the shaker to its spot, she began dragging her finger through it, tracing a random design. “When he finally did, I was happy. We all were. But he wasn’t all better like we’d hoped. His lungs were badly damaged, and he was without oxygen for so long that his brain was in bad shape. MC was with me the whole time, of course. She couldn’t use her laptop to just...I dunno…’wish’ him better. She tried, though. That was something. You know MC and her laptop.” NekoNeechan laughed, a short, soulless bark that tore into Magus’ heart like a knife.

“But we took him all over the place. The best doctors we could find. Medicine, surgeries, the works. You name it, we tried it. But he didn’t get better. Not really. He has his good days and bad days, but now…” She swept the salt from the tabletop into her palm with one rough movement. She took the palmful over to the farmhouse sink and dumped it down. A few tenacious grains clung to her skin, and she rubbed her hands together to get rid of them. She stared out the window, her hands gripping the counter on either side of the sink. The light around her was otherworldly, and her voice held all the barely-contained anguish of one whose put her life on hold for another. “We’ve had ten years. They weren’t the ten we might’ve asked for, maybe, but we’ve still had them. Ten years together.” She hung her head.

Magus sat, stunned at the measure of unspent grief in the woman before him. He ached to console her, but what could he say? The cynic in the back of his head, the one he typically kept buried, told him snidely that he’d probably never cared for anyone half as much as NekoNeechan seemed to care for Gremio—not even NekoNeechan herself.  _ You’ll never find anyone to love you like that _ , it taunted. 

The light caught a crystal sparkle as it dripped from behind the chestnut curtain of NekoNeechan’s hair into the cool ceramic of the sink. The shoulders trembled and hunched closer together. Her voice, when she spoke, was smaller and weaker than he’d ever heard it before. “It’d never have happened if I’d just been honest about hating boats. We could’ve gone somewhere else. Gremmy would’ve changed his plans in a heartbeat. It’s my fault, Magus. It’s all my fault.”

_ No _ , he thought.  _ It’s mine _ .


	10. Spes Bono

Lucca looked up as Magus burst into the door. His lungs blazed in his chest and his mouth tasted like molten copper. He placed one hand on the wall, propping himself up as he clutched his side. Every breath was a struggle, and he was on the losing side.

For her part, the inventor reacted coolly. She picked up a wooden stool and set it in front of him. He almost fell on top of it while she poured some water into a glass from a nearby pitcher. “I was wondering when you’d come ‘round.” She held out the glass to him.

The cool liquid quenched the fire inside of him; he could almost feel the steam pouring from his ears. He drained the glass in one go, sucked in large lungfuls of air, and held it out to her. “I don’t even know how I got here,” he said as soon as he was able to speak.

She refilled it, and he drank gratefully. “I can see that. Did you run all the way, or just from the portal?”

“I...don’t even remember.”

Lucca turned back to the table of bits and baubles she had been fiddling with. “And why did you decide to come visit me so suddenly? Twice in one day—I’d say I was honored, but we both know I’d be lying.”

“Something bad happened.” Magus watched her for a reaction, but she seemed to be waiting for him to continue. The part of her that was listening, anyway. So as quickly as he could manage, he explained his return to North Window: the strange coughing, Gremio’s diagnosis, NekoNeechan’s breakdown. “It doesn’t make any sense. Grem was with us. He shouldn’t have been affected, right?”

The woman shrugged, but didn’t turn. “Who knows how this whole time-travel thing works? Remember Robo? We left him sowing seeds for about four hundred years, and he was a rust-bucket when we got him back. I was still clearing sand from his joints every night before we beat Lavos.”

“Yeah, but you’d left him. He hadn’t been part of...well, your group when that happened. Gremio came with us. Doesn’t that mean he gets some sort of, I dunno, chronological immunity?”

“Maybe…” Finally, she put down the wire she’d been curling. Her glasses flashed as she adjusted them. “What did you do while we were in the past?”

“I ran into Locke, went onstage, and then met up with you guys again.”

“And I changed the envelopes around.” She turned to stare at him. “And what did Gremio do?”

Magus closed his eyes to focus. “He went with me, but I hid him right before Locke found me. I guess he went back to you after that? And you both came looking for me?”

“Right. So if Gremio didn’t do anything other than that, if he didn’t actively change the timeline, perhaps that would explain why he is now suffering the effects of this disease.” 

It sounded like a stretch to the magician, but it also wasn’t like he had any better explanation. There was an obvious solution, though. “We need to go back and rescue him, then.”

“My Time Key isn’t that accurate. I can’t take us right back to the exact same time. What if we cause a paradox? It could unravel the fabric of the universe.” She tapped her chin. “But I could take you to before the accident happens. Where was it again?”

“Um...Dunan River? In, um, his homeworld? What’s that?”

Lucca had pulled out some sort of handheld device and was frantically thumbing in a sort of code. It was bulkier than the smartphones he’d seen Sephiroth and MC using on those rare occasions he saw them. It was made of metal and shaped like a wedge or a key without teeth: broad at the top, then narrowing quickly to the part she held. Its curly antenna was bobbled as she held it, tip aglow. “Got ‘em.” She held up the device. “This gets me the coordinates I need so we can at least find the right town. Do you know the date of the...date?”

Magus shook his head. “No. It was pretty soon after the contest, though, I’d imagine. It ended on a Tuesday, so maybe that Saturday?”

She adjusted a knob on the side of the device and nodded. “I’ll set it for Wednesday. We can hop forward if we need to.”

“Okay.” Magus stood slowly and set the empty glass on a work table strewn with papers. He walked beside her as she pulled the Time Key from under her collar. “Wait, if you’re not that accurate, how did you get us to the same day as the finale?”

“I was trying to get us there before that episode started,” she replied simply. She raised the Time Key high, and the room swirled into a void of purple and green plasma.


	11. Carpe Diem

Magus slammed his hands down on the table. “How long are we going to have to stay here before we can change things?” he demanded.

“It’s only been four days,” Lucca replied calmly. “They’ll show up eventually.”

“WIll they, though?” Magus began pacing, gesturing wildly as he walked. “We don’t even know if they’re in this village. Maybe they started from one of the other ones. Maybe they waited a whole  _ year _ before going on their date. I can totally, one-hundred-percent see Grem pulling a stunt like that. ‘Oh, the weather is just half a degree too cool. NekoNeechan might get a chill on the water, and I’d better pack a blanket or else she might be cold. But what if it warms up in the sun? She might be  _ too _ warm, and that would ruin our precious date, too!’ Bah!”

Lucca eyed him over the rim of her mug. “That’s not a terribly flattering impression of your friend.”

“Well, I’m not feeling in a particularly flattering mood, now, am I?” retorted the magician. He ran his fingers through his lavender hair and sighed. “I just thought it’d be all fixed by now. I’m sick of fish, I’m sick of shitty beer, and I’m sick of knowing that, somewhere in the future, Grem is just about on his deathbed.” He didn’t add the obvious conclusion to his thought-- _ and it’s all my fault _ . He figured it went without saying.

To her credit, Lucca was kind enough to not point this out. “If you’d brought me more information, we could have been home by now.”

So much for being kind. “You try asking a sobbing person for more detail about the bad date they were on. Especially given the circumstances.”

“And thus here we sit, waiting on another pleasant morning for your friends to show up.” She sipped her drink and looked out the window at the sparkling river drifting lazily past.

Before Magus could come up with a clever retort, commotion outside the window caught his attention. He darted over and looked through the thin, wavy glass onto the dusty street.

A group of villagers exclaimed over a carriage that had appeared in the central square. Though far from ornate, its large wheels and team of matched white horses were ostentatious enough to garner the kind of attention that, for some, would have been unwelcome. The fact that it was, well, a carriage in the middle of a remote fishing village probably also had something to do with the crowd.

The door to the carriage opened, and a familiar head popped out. Her loud voice carried around the square. “Air! Finally! But, Gremmy, why does it smell like fish?”

NekoNeechan.

Magus was about to dart out the door when a hand on his arm stopped him. “Don’t,” Lucca warned. “You don’t know what’ll happen if she sees you. You’re here to talk to Gremio, aren’t you?”

“But she’s right there. I could—”

“You could end up making things even messier.” She shook her head. “I’ll go.”

He blinked at her. “And what will you do?”

She shrugged. “I have an idea. Do you trust me.”

“I guess so. I don’t have any reason not to.”

Lucca smiled and released him. “Wait here. I’ll get Gremio.” She slipped out the door before Magus could say another word.

He gently pushed the window open so he could hear the conversation, then stepped to the side so no one would see him. He watched as she walked up to the carriage, her shoulder-length hair wafting in the breeze. NekoNeechan—ten years younger, forehead smooth of worry, face unlined from fear—bounded out of the carriage and grinned upon seeing the inventor. “Hey! What’re you doing here?” She held her arms open for a hug.

Lucca obliged. “Just taking advantage of some of those portals you’ve had MC open. I know she used some of my tech for the competition, so I thought it would be interesting to use some of hers.”

“Oh, cool! I’m sure she’ll be happy to know that people like it.” NekoNeechan looked around, then turned to the carriage. “Gremmy! What’s taking you so long?”

Gremio, his younger self, stepped down out of the carriage. “I-I’m sorry, NekoNeechan,” he stammered. He tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind one ear. “I was just going over our itinerary once more.”

“Speaking of which,” Lucca cut in smoothly, “I believe there’s someone at the inn with something for you to bring. They were wondering when you’d arrive so you could get it.”

“Oooo, a present?” NekoNeechan hopped on her toes giddily. “I’ll go get it—”

“I think it’s the sort of surprise that Gremio himself would like to give you,” Lucca said. “Gremio, be a dear and hurry to get it for her, hmm?”

“R-right,” he replied. He began to approach the inn.


	12. Terra Firma

The inn door opened on creaking leather hinges, and Gremio blinked as he stepped into the dim space. “Hello? I’m supposed to pick something up for my, um, date?”

The awkwardness with which the blond said the word made Magus want to cringe; it sounded strange. The Gremio he knew ten years earlier was timid, shy, and uncomfortable around people, particularly those he was attracted to. Even his own timeline’s Gremio was insecure, though he’d become more spontaneous and determined with age. 

Still, he hadn’t come here to debate which aspects of Gremio’s personality were in need of changing. He was here to make sure that Gremio himself didn’t change. “Hello.”

Gremio practically jumped out of his skin. He clutched his ornately embroidered linen shirt and exclaimed, “Magus! What are you doing here?”

“I was just looking for you. No reason in particular.” He flashed his trademark toothy grin.

To his surprise, Gremio eyed him warily. “Are you sure?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I beat you. It came down to the two of us in the end, and I won by a single vote, and that I only got because you didn’t show up for the final group song performance. Are you here to tell me that I shouldn’t have won?”

Magus suppressed his surprise to the best his ability. Having not stuck around for the rest of the finale, he had no clue whether it was he or Albel who had faced off for first place. Knowing the margin, though, and how  _ he  _ could have taken NekoNeechan on a date…

He shook his head to derail that train of thought. “I think it’s great that you won. I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”

Gremio’s face relaxed slightly. “Thank you. I think we all tried our best, and I’m glad to have earned this chance.”

“I am, too. You’re a great guy, Grem, and she deserves to go on a date with someone...great.” He cringed inwardly at the rhyme, but smiled again to try to play it cool. “I do have one thing to say, though.”

“What is that?” The blond asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion once more.

“I don’t think this date is a good idea.”

“I knew it!” Gremio’s shriek echoed into the rafters, disturbing the dust there and sending it snowing down to the rush-strewn dirt floor. “You  _ do _ think that you should’ve won!”

“No!” Magus waved his hands quickly to banish that impression. “No, I think it’s great you did! I just said that! It’s just, well, I know something about NekoNeechan, and she’ll be mad if I tell you probably, but I think it’s important that you know so that way you can prevent it from all being a disaster.”

This last word seemed to give Gremio pause. “‘A disaster’? How? Why? Did she say something to you?”

He had to tread carefully. One misstep and it would all fall to ruin. “She told me she gets seasick.”

Blood drained from Gremio’s cheeks. “‘Seasick’?”

“Massively. Puke central. Just so much vomit. I know you’ve got this nice date planned, going on the river and all in a boat, but if you take her on that trip, she will spend the entire time hanging over the side spewing the contents of her stomach into the water. Her innards will be doing everything they can to become her outtards.” Magus shook his head. “Don’t do it, Grem. From one competitor to another—from one  _ friend _ to another—don’t take NekoNeechan on that boat trip.”

Wheels seemed to be churning inside Gremio’s head, and Magus watched him closely. Mentally, he had all his fingers and toes crossed, begging the universe to let the other man believe him. The silence seemed to stretch on for an eternity, and it was all he could do to not run over and shake some sense into the man who would, in one universe, be his roommate.

Finally, Gremio nodded. “And how do you know this?”

Magus could’ve kicked himself. All the preparation he’d done over the past four days, all the questions he’d come up with answers for, and he’d missed this one. The most obvious one. Par for the course, perhaps, but facing down the skeptical gaze of his old friend, he wasn’t sure if he could say anything that would be truly convincing.

Time seemed to slow, and Gremio shook his head. “That’s what I thought. You really  _ are _ just out to ruin my date with NekoNeechan.” His tone dripped with unconcealed disgust. “Forget it, Magus. I’m going. NekoNeechan is waiting for me.”

The room swam in Magus’ vision, and it was all he could do to keep from weeping in despair.


	13. Magicae Verba

Gremio’s hand was on the door.

Magus’ heart was in his throat. 

Gremio pressed down on the latch.

A thin band of sunlight burst through the opening door.

An idea sprang into Magus’ head. “Wait!” he cried. He placed his palm on the door, pushing it shut. “Wait a second. Fine, I’ll tell you.”

The blond crossed his arms over his chest. “What?”

“Y’know how we did those old parties. Y’know, the cast parties? How MC would get us all together and we’d all sing songs and celebrate NekoNeechan’s birthday?”

“Yes…” 

“Well, at mine, we were all talking about embarrassing things. Things we wished we could change. Y’know, Robo wanted to try being human for a day, Frog wanted to stop being a frog because he didn’t want to eat bugs anymore, Chrono wanted to actually be able to speak instead of carrying around a chalkboard all the time—” 

“Yes, yes. I get it.” Gremio tapped his foot on the ground. “Your point is, Magus?”

“I...well, NekoNeechan said she wished she had a stronger stomach. She wished she could eat whatever she wanted whenever she wanted without getting sick, especially dairy products. She really wished she could go on boats without getting completely seasick. She said there was this one world she wanted to go to because some guy had a submarine that went under sand instead of water, and he spent all this time sailing the desert, but she couldn’t go because she might get sick.”

“NekoNeechan said that? But she ate cheese during the competition, and I could’ve sworn she lived on ice cream in August.” Despite his bravado, Magus could see the first flickers of doubt burning in Gremio’s eyes.

“She tends to eat a lot of things she shouldn’t,” admitted the magician. “But that’s NekoNeechan for you. She’ll do things she shouldn’t do because she’s impulsive like that. She’s kind, too, and she’ll do things to make people happy regardless of whether they’ll hurt her or not. Going on the boat is definitely going to hurt her.” Magus put a sympathetic hand on Gremio’s shoulder. “She’ll go because she knows you put a lot of time and effort into this date, but it’ll end up being one of the worst days she’s ever had.”

“You just don’t want me to go with her,” Gremio accused. “You want to go with her yourself.” His voice wavered, betraying a blossoming uncertainty. 

“I want her to be safe and happy. There’s honestly nothing I want more in the entire universe. If being with you makes her happy—and it seems to, since you won the competition and all—then I want it to stay that way. Do something else with her. Sit on the pier and fish. Unhitch the horses and travel inland for a picnic. Go through one of MC’s portals and take her to Costa del Sol for a day at the beach. Stay here and make her dinner. Anything, absolutely anything, except take her on a boat. Please.”

Magus was aware he was begging, but he didn’t care. Getting Gremio to agree was far more important than anything else, one of the most important things he’d ever done. His mind was racing; if Gremio still said no, he was prepared to burst out of the inn like a stripper from a cake, tackle NekoNeechan to the ground, and even break her arm if need be. Anything to keep her from getting on that boat with Gremio.

Anything to save her from her future.

Gremio’s sigh brought Magus back to reality. “If I promise not to take her on the boat, will you let me out?”

“You believe me? You’re actually going to do something else?” He didn’t even bother to hide the incredulity in his voice.

“We’ll do something else. I don’t know what else we’ll do, but I’ll do it if it means you let me out of here.”

“Done.” Magus removed his hand from the door and stepped aside.

“And you promise to leave us alone on our date.  _ I _ was the winner, Magus, no matter how much you wish it’d been yourself. It’s a date for two, so don’t try to follow us.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t. I just wanted to stop you from making a horrible mistake that’d haunt you for the rest of your life.” The glib comment came out before Magus could stop it, and the look Gremio gave him was almost as suspicious as those that he’d borne earlier. Even so, he slipped through the door without another word.

Magus watched through the window, absently tracing a small scar in the wood as Gremio strode back into the square. He grabbed NekoNeechan’s hand and led her back to the carriage. Lucca glanced back at the inn, and Magus flashed her a double thumbs up. Something akin to hope took root in him, and he somehow knew everything would be better when he got home.


	14. A Priori

The cool lakeside air filled Magus’ lungs as he dashed towards North Window. He inhaled deeply, drinking in the scents of tilled earth, cut grass, and the faint tang of saltwater. Anything to wash the stink of four days of fish from his nostrils. 

He knew his excitement was strange; after all, he’d never  _ really _ left this world, except for the quick jaunts to his own homeland. He hadn’t even really left the region, since Banner Village was still considered part of the South Window Principality, same as North Window was. North Window was kind of its own place now, or at least it had been since the war years earlier, but yeah, it was all part of the same “country,” as it were. However, it was miles and miles and ten whole years apart, and it was crazy what time could do. It could build mountains, destroy empires, and save lives.

Magus was thrilled about this last part.

North Window looked the same as it always had: cobbled street leading to a gate festooned with flapping pennants, half-timbered houses leaning expectantly over flower beds and brightly painted front doors, sunlight streaming down on slate roofs. Gremio was always saying how surprised he was at the growth of the town since its days as the headquarters for Riou’s army, when apparently everything had been restricted to the fortress on the hill. Speed-walking down the winding streets now, Magus was glad for the expansion. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

He came to his door, an arched quintet of planks bound with iron bands and painted a cheerful red.  round window, though at eye-level, was more for decoration than use; the textured glass was impossible to see through, even from the inside. He pulled his key from his pocket and tried the lock.

Nothing happened.

Strange.

He tried the key again, attempting to twist it. Sometimes it stuck, though usually only in abnormally hot weather when the door swelled up from humidity or in extremely cold weather when sleet got into the mechanism and froze it completely shut. Granted, the weather seemed mild enough that neither of those two conditions seemed to be met. He stepped back to assess the situation.

More than once Magus had climbed through the living room window to get in or out when the door was stuck. In fact, he’d gotten into the habit of keeping pots of flowers away from that particular window just in case. 

Gremio, on the other hand, could always be trusted to move the pots back in a tidy cluster. He had gotten better about his anti-flora neuroses over the years, luckily, but he still struggled with even the most innocent of blossoms. Not that Magus could blame him, really; getting murdered by plants would do that to you. Vegetables weren’t so bad anymore, but he always tended to walk in the center of the street when passing by other houses with actual flowers in front of them. That’s why Magus made sure to buy silk ones for landscaping. Though they needed replacing every year, it was cheaper than therapy.

The planters were clustered now, and there were more of them than Magus remembered. They seemed lightly scented too. On closer inspection, insects buzzed around them in lazy exploration, and that was perhaps the most unusual thing of all. If Gremio was anxious about plants, he was a fanatic about bugs. If one got in the house, it was chaos until the offending creature had been removed. Now, here, watching a bee bumble from flower to flower, a chill raced down Magus’ spine. Maybe trying the window would be a mistake.

He stepped back to the door. The iron knocker clanked loudly as he lifted it and let it drop into place. Beyond the door he could hear shuffling feet and cheerful voices. “I’ll get it!” one cried.

“No! Mommy said it was  _ my  _ turn!” a second one, thick like a mouthful of marbles, called back.

“Mine! Mine!” A high-pitched squeal answered.

The feet racing down the hallway— _ his _ hallway—sounded like a stampede of imps. The door rattled with the stomping of feet and what sounded like people shoving each other into the walls; a delicate cascade of plaster dust drifted down after one particularly hefty thud. The door rattled again as the lock unclicked, and it flew open to reveal a trio of children, two boys and a girl. None were over maybe seven years old, and the youngest, the girl, couldn’t have been older than three. The middle boy had medium brown hair and soft gray eyes, while the other two children had hair the color of sunshine and eyes so dark they were nearly black. They were all clad similarly in tan tunics and blue trousers, and there was something about them, something he just couldn’t pinpoint, that made him feel like he knew them.

His house.

But his house he shared with Gremio.

Who’d gone on a date with NekoNeechan.

And now these children.

The world swayed around him.

Were these kids...had Gremio and NekoNeechan…

Were they  _ married _ ?!


	15. A Posteriori

Magus just about slapped himself to return his brain to the present. He needed to focus. He had things to do. If these kids belonged to NekoNeechan and Gremio, then he’d know for sure that at least he’d saved them both. But if they weren’t, then he needed to figure out why they were living in his house—and how to get rid of them, if need be. There was no point in jumping to conclusions. He took a deep breath.

The little girl shrank back upon seeing Magus with his pointed ears, sharp cheekbones, and bluish-purple skin. Seeing the fear in her face, he wished he had his scarf or a giant hat to cover up. 

“What do you want?” asked the oldest boy, staring up defiantly into Magus’ crimson eyes. “My mom’s in the tub, so it’s not like we’re home alone or nothin’.”

“I’m just looking for someone, and I heard they lived here,” Magus replied as kindly as he could, mentally slapping images of NekoNeechan bathing from his eager brain. “May I speak to your m-m-mother?”

“Are you stupid? Didn’t ya hear Teo? Mom’s busy and can’t come t’ the door. Go away.” The second boy crossed his arms over his chest and glared up at Magus.

“Yeah! Go ‘way!” said the little girl.

“Tir, Nanami, c’mon. Ya don’t gotta say it like that. But, mister, you’ll hafta come back later. Sorry,” the oldest boy said.

Emotions warred in the magician’s chest. On the one hand, he was impressed by the moxie of the two boys; they reminded him of the kind of heroes he’d admired as a child, unwilling to take shit from anyone. Their spirit reminded him of NekoNeechan, and he could completely see her encouraging them to speak their minds and defend each other from outside dangers. The actual rudeness, though, startled him. He couldn’t imagine Gremio raising children like these three, or at least like the two boys. He was too sweet-natured to put up that kind of disrespect towards strangers. But then again, those names were important ones...Magus flipped through his mental rolodex and swallowed hard. The father of Gremio’s charge had been Teo, and then Tir was the actual charge, and Nanami had been one of the heroes of the war who had almost died. She’d stop in to Gremio’s cafe for lunch everyday and they’d talk about cheating death. Each one of these kids had an important name, one that meant something to Gremio, and that meant…

“One last question before I go,” Magus said. “Who are your parents? What are their names?”

The eldest boy, Teo, looked him up and down suspiciously. “Why d’you wanna know?”

“I...I’m an old friend of theirs, I think, but I need to make sure. If you just tell me their names, I’ll be on my way. If they’re my friends, I’ll come back later to talk to them. If they’re not, then I won’t waste any more of your time. You can go back to whatever it was you were doing.”

“Mommy says we’re not s’posed t’ talk t’ strangers,” little Nanami said matter-of-factly. “Go ‘way.”

An idea flashed in his head. He knelt down so he was on eye-level with the children, and he smiled his most innocent and winsome smile. “Well, my name is Magus Janus d’Zeal. There. Now you know my name, and we’re no longer strangers. Can you please tell me your parents’ names?”

“No!” Tir grabbed the door and slammed it shut in Magus’s face. 

He fell backwards on his heels onto the cobbles. His nose throbbed painfully where the red-painted wood had smacked it, and he probed the outside gently with two fingers. No blood, and it didn’t  _ feel _ broken. He made a mental note to check in with Liukan later to make sure it was okay. Slowly, checking for bruises all the way, he stood up.

Beyond the closed door another voice, though muffled, could be heard. “What was that all about?”

“Mommy, there’s a strange man outside!”

“We tried to get him to go away, but he’s still out there!”

Magus’ ears perked up. Mommy! NekoNeechan! He told himself that all he’d do is see her, ensure she and Gremio were living only the happiest of lives, and go off on his way. Whatever that might entail, now that his present-day self was broke and homeless.  _ I’ve been hobo-Magus before. I can do it again. Maybe Seph is looking for a roommate _ .

The door opened, and Magus dropped his hand from his nose. He plastered a brilliant smile on his face to hide the pain, both the physical kind from the fall and the ache in his heart that Gremio was the one making her happy and not him. “Hello, N—” he began.


	16. Hospitum Beneficii

The woman in the doorway wore a short jacket of midnight blue cotton belted at the waist with a slender silk cord. A gray skirt skimmed her knees, and her bare feet left damp imprints on the wooden floorboards. Her curly, corn-silk gold hair was pulled back in an untidy bun at the nape of her neck, and her wide, green eyes were curious as she examined the visitor. “Hello? May I help you?”

Magus’ heart sank. This wasn’t NekoNeechan. This wasn’t even anyone he knew. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he murmured. “I...I, um, thought that someone I knew lived here.”

“Oh!” She peered at him closely. “I’d say maybe you fought with us back in the day, but I’m pretty sure I’d recognize you. I don’t know you from Greenhill, either. Unless you’re someone’s sibling? Are you related to someone we fought with? Sierra, perhaps?”

Magus shook his head. “No, no, I didn’t fight. Not in this war, anyway. I’ll be going…” He turned away, his heart in his stomach.

“If you tell me their name, I might be able to help you. I’ve been living here for more than half my life at this point.” He could hear the laughter in her voice. “I might not look it, but I’m in my thirties. I know most of the people in North Window. The hubby always said I was good with names and faces.”

He looked back at her. Beside her eyes he could see the tiniest of crow’s feet, and there were faint circles under her eyes—likely from the exhaustion of the children who crowded around her knees. He shrugged. “Do you—or, rather, I guess, _did_ you—ever know anyone named Gremio? He fought in two wars, actually, the one for this region and an earlier one. Gray eyes, blond hair? Likes the color green? Hates plants?”

The woman tapped her chin thoughtfully. “The name’s familiar...he was taking care of another person, a young man?”

“That’s him!” Magus coughed and forced the elation from his tone. “I mean, that’s Gremio, yes. Do you know where I might be able to find him?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him in years. Are you sure he’s in North Window?”

“I thought he was.” _Because if he isn’t, I have no idea where he_ could _be_.

“Maybe you should check the fortress. Viktor keeps a record of everyone who lives here for tax purposes, so if your friend is here, he’ll know. Here, let me write you a note so you can see him quicker.”

She walked off, the children trailing behind her like a trio of train cars. Magus watched, rifling through his memory for Viktor. It was a quick find: tall, dark-haired, swarthy complexion, and muscles that would make any reasonable woman—or man—swoon. _He’s in charge here, though?_ In the world Magus remembered, Viktor had retired from anything remotely like administration and lived in a cottage a few streets over. He gave swordplay lessons to local children, and the raspberries he grew were plumpest, juiciest, most amazing fruit known to man. Gremio made amazing jam with them. Somehow Magus doubted that Viktor still had raspberry bushes if he’d never stopped running the town.

The woman reappeared with a slip of paper in her hand. “It’s not much, but I hope you can find your friend.”

“Thank you.” Magus glanced at it; in a few simple, copperplate lines she’d demanded an audience for him with the leader of the town. “Again, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Oh, no. It’s no trouble at all. I remember when I came here trying to find Sheena to tell him that I was pregnant the first time. I was glad for all the help I could get! Our Eileen is at Greenhill now, but I doubt she would have been if it weren’t for the kindness of strangers.”

Magus nodded and slid the paper into the pocket of his raggy-hemmed jeans. “Thank you again, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that, please!” she laughed. “It makes me sound so _old_. Call me ‘Nina,’ if nothing else!”

“Okay, then, Nina. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome! And if there’s anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to come ask! When you find your friend, bring him down and I’ll make you some lunch.”

“That’s more than kind of you.” Magus turned slightly, his mind swirling with confusion about the entire situation: someone else living in _his_ house, someone else running _his_ town, and Gremio nowhere to be seen. And this woman, this Nina...she’d visited once, years earlier, he remembered. She had a little girl with her, and she was extremely pregnant and searching for a man. Gremio had known her, and he’d sat her down to have a “private conversation.” Through the thin walls of the house he’d heard things about “second time, shame on you” and “knowing better” and “making the same mistakes twice.”

 _Whatever happened between the date and now_ , he thought as he walked away, _she’d certainly changed._


	17. Regem Regum

For all her poor choices in the previous timeline, Nina’s note was surprisingly effective. The guard at the gate to the fortress courtyard took one glance at it and waved him in. A second guard, this one standing before the doors into the fortress proper, nodded to his partner and began leading him through the labyrinthine halls. The walls were made of thick, local stone, as befitted a military stronghold, and every few feet flickering torches gave off their golden light. It was just enough to see by in most of the winding, windowless corridors. A few rooms they passed had open doors revealing windows, but they were little more than arrow-slits for soldiers. Magus had a vague memory of a castle he’d spent time in as a child exiled from Zeal, menacing and dark and full of fiendish monsters. In the evening dim and dancing torchlight, this place had a similar, eerie feel.

The soldier knew where he was going, at least, and before long he stopped in front of a pair of iron-bound oak doors. Unlike the doors in the village, these were huge and unpainted. Scars from ancient battles hinted at tales of valor and death, though the most splintery edges seemed to have been sanded away to protect the users. A third guard, this one in a uniform somewhat more stately than the previous two, conversed quietly with Magus’ guide. Their eyes traveled up and down, taking in his shabby sweatshirt and raggedy jeans, heavy now with dust and a few days’ worth of grime. He could practically smell himself, and that was never a good sign. If his dirt-blind nose was telling him to bathe, he was afraid what animal these men were mentally comparing him to. The kindest he could come up with was perhaps an overworked horse.

The note still seemed to do the trick, though, luckily enough. The third guard pushed one of the oversized panels open and announced in an officious tone, “One Magus d’Zeal to see his Lordship, Viktor.” The man waved Magus in, and the guide went on his way.

The throne room—for that’s what it was, for all intents and purposes, was brighter than the other rooms due to a stained glass window set high in the roof. Torches still provided much of the light, but they were mainly wooden pedestals with wax candles spiked in. A rug led towards an ornately carved wooden chair which sat on its own dais. A pair of guards stood on either side of the dais, flanking the rug. On the wall hung a massive sword with a gleaming steel blade. 

“Well?” asked the figure on the throne. He seemed out of place in the room, like he’d been put there without any say in the matter. His dark, shaggy hair was shot through with gray, and a scraggle of a beard coated his jaw. A tunic of earthy yellow revealed sagging muscles, and a round paunch hung above the belt at his waist. His legs sprawled any which way, and his hands gripped the armrests of the chair with almost white-knuckled force. 

Magus couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a voice dripping with so much boredom. Even Albel, who had been the undisputed master of disaffected, toneless delivery during the Hot Date competitions, had nothing on Viktor right here. The magician cleared his throat and said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Whatever. Just tell me what you want.” 

“Right.” He resisted the urge to tug at his collar. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. You know him: Gremio. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him, and, uh, I have some important news for him. Do you know where he might be?”

It wasn’t until the last word fell from his lips that Magus noticed the strange expression on VIktor’s face. It wasn’t curiosity or surprise, really; there was something darker to it than that. Something unusual and...menacing? Sinister? Goosebumps rose on his arms, and he forced his hands out in a peaceful gesture. “It’s been awhile since I saw him last,” he added lamely.

Viktor’s toothy smile only widened, not unlike a feral cat’s when examining its prey. “Indeed I do know where Gremio is.”

Relief washed over Magus like a cool shower. “That’s awesome! Thanks! Can you take me to him?”

“I can have him brought here. Guard!” Both guards looked over at their leader, and Viktor waved his hand. “You. Guy on the left. Go grab Gremio, would you? Bring him here. Tell him he has a visitor.”

Magus dug his hands into his pockets while the guard dashed off. The acrid smoke of the torches was wreaking havoc on his eyes, but he didn’t want to wipe them on his sleeve. Aside from the fact the gesture might seem weak, he wasn’t convinced that his sleeve was cleaner than the air. Minutes dragged on until he heard the door creak open once more.

The magician turned, a bright smile on his face. “Gremio!” he called out.

“You!” a scratchy voice shrieked in reply.


	18. Auribus Teneo Lupum

Before any sight could register in Magus’ eyes, he found himself down on the stone floor, pinned and pummeled by a squawking creature. He drew his arms over his face to protect his eyes and nose. The rain of blows, though no more powerful than a child’s, was fast enough and haphazard enough that they could potentially cause significant injury. A cuff to the side of the head left his ears ringing, and a lucky knee to the ribs took his breath away.  

Through the fog in his mind, Magus knew there was just one thing he could do. He twisted beneath the wailing figure, using the slender weightlessness of his opponent’s body against him. A jut of his hips knocked one knee away. The figure crashed down with a yelp, and Magus was able to writhe out from underneath. One hand managed to hold two bony wrists, and he was able to tuck almost all of the figure’s narrow chest between his elbow and armpit. “Stop it,” he commanded with the authority he’d carried in his childhood, ordering his mother’s servants around.

“Never!” gasped the figure, legs flailing. 

Magus shifted positions and pinned the legs down with his right calf. Most of his weight was on his right knee—he didn’t actually want to crush this guy to death—but he also didn’t relish the thought of a kneecap to the ‘nads. “Stop.”

The figure wriggled more.

Magus took a deep breath, then muttered a string of gibberish-sounding words. “Stop,” he said at the end.

All movement ended, save for the quick rise and fall of the figure’s chest as he breathed.

“Do you yield?” Magus asked. “Blink twice if yes.”

Two blinks.

Slowly, carefully, Magus found his feet below him. He could feel a dozen or two tiny bruises forming where the figure’s fists had made contact, but for the most part everything seemed intact. He stepped away and stared down at the figure, now that he had a chance to get a good look.

He was so bony as to almost be skeletal. His cheekbones were more prominent even than Magus’ own, and pale skin stretched taut to his jaw. His hair might have been blond, but it was stringy and streaked with dirt and grease. His eyes were hollow pits in his skull. His black clothes hung off his body like rags from a hook. A foul stench rose from the clothing: sour milk and sulfur. The nails on his bare feet were chipped, yellow claws. If it weren’t for the leaden sickness in his stomach looking at the figure, Magus would scarcely have believed that this...this  _ thing _ was his best friend.

“What happened to you?” he whispered.

Viktor signaled with one hand, and some guards came over to Gremio. They clamped irons around his wrists and ankles, then stood pressed tightly against him to keep him from moving. His head lolled to one side, sinking into his bony shoulders like he didn’t even have the energy to hold it up.

Seeing that he was unable to move, Magus muttered the counter to the spell he’d cast, restoring Gremio’s ability to move freely. He struggled against his bonds, but gave up after a moment. He slumped into one of the soldiers.

Magus looked to VIktor. “What happened to him?”

“We’ve never really been sure,” admitted the shaggy-haired man. “He made his way back here ten years ago, chattering incomprehensibly. When we asked what was wrong, he attacked my men. We keep him locked up now, for our own sakes if nothing else.”

“Like a dog.” Magus blanched when he realized he’d spoken aloud. 

Viktor, however, seemed to take the observation in stride. “Like a mad dog, yes. We can’t put him down; he’s still human, no matter how he might act. He has a room—a nice room, or it was when we put him in there at first. He mostly just sits on the bed, staring. Sometimes he used to attack the person who brings him food, but we realized after the first few times that was because we were giving him fruit and vegetables. Now it’s just bread and meat and this special drink Liukan cooked up that has something in it to keep him from getting scurvy.” He signaled again, and the guards took Gremio from the room.

“Why were you grinning, then?” Magus asked while his friend was frog marched away.

“What else do I get to do here? There’s nothing else for entertainment. You think I like being here, getting all sloppy and floppy from disuse? I’d kill to be able to step down. Practice my swordplay whenever I want. Maybe teach a new generation. Have a house to myself with no guards. But there’s no one else to step up. Nothing else for me to do but sit here on my ass all day and listen to people complain about their problems. You come along, and I can solve your problem right away. Why wouldn’t I enjoy myself doing that?”

Magus’ eyes burned from the sick explanation Viktor spat like it was “logic.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails digging crescents into the heels of his hands. “Where are you keeping Gremio?” he asked in a clipped voice. “I want to see him.”

“Your funeral,” replied Viktor with a shrug. “I’ll get a man to take you there.”


	19. Planctus Tempore

As Viktor had said, Gremio sat cross-legged in the center of the narrow cot pressed against one stone wall. Yellow straw stuffing leaked from one unpatched corner of the mattress, dribbling down in an untidy pile on the wooden floor. A tin plate and dented mug sat on a rickety table across the room, and a three-legged camp stool stood nearby. One window, high in the wall, allowed the last of the daylight in. It moved in a slow patch up over Gremio’s head. 

Magus turned to the guard. “Let me in. I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—” 

“I handled him before.” He placed his hand on the latch. “I can do it again if I have to.”

The guard shrugged as if to say Magus’ health was none of his concern and unlocked the door.

Gremio didn’t look up when Magus entered, nor did he move when the lock clunked shut once more. Magus wrinkled his nose at the smells wafting around the closed room. It was worse than Albel’s dressing room after the August competitions had been. It reeked of rot and old, unwashed socks and that one cheese Sephiroth had brought home one time, thinking it’d make a good sandwich. (Spoiler: it hadn’t.) It was like meat left out in the sun, mildew after a rain, two-year-old diapers on a hot day. It only seemed to worsen the longer he remained in there, breathing the air. Stomach twisting, he dashed to the window and pushed at it.

“It won’t open, you know,” Gremio said dreamily.

Magus stopped and stared. 

“They bolted it shut after I tried to jump out. They decided it would be safer that way. There’s a loose stone, though, a few down—to the left—my left—yes...that stone, if you move it, you can get a little fresh air. I’d do it myself, but...” He raised one hand, and a chain rattled. Magus’ eyes followed it from the cuff on Gremio’s wrist to a ring bolted into the wall. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

The magician obliged. The stone came away easily, and he sucked in great lungfuls of the crisp evening breeze. He held his breath, grabbed the camp stool from the table and plopped down. The crevasse was just about at nose and mouth height, perfect for being able to breathe easily. His stomach relaxed slowly.

“Better, hmm? It’s always better. For guests, I mean. That’s why they did that. It’s too small a hole for me to get through, and it would take effort. I don’t have much effort these days.”

The ethereal voice was making the hairs on the back of Magus’ neck rise up. “What’s wrong with you?” He wanted to kick himself for being so blunt the second the words were out.

“My medicine. Liukan gives me medicine when I’ve been acting up. It’s better this way. All the voices quiet down. The colors come back.”

“I’ll say…” He shook his head. “But why do you need it anyway? What happened, Gremio? Last time I saw you, you were heading out on your date with NekoNeechan.”

“I was. I’d planned the whole thing. A romantic carriage ride. An even more romantic boat trip down the river. But you said no boat, so I decided on a picnic. I’d find food for a feast and prepare it for her. I bought wine and bread and pastries and even a vegetable or two. I decided that, if it was for NekoNeechan, I could hold nothing back.

“We traveled for a few hours, north and east, hoping to find the perfect spot. We finally got to a clearing, and everything was going to plan. NekoNeechan seemed to be having the time of her life. I was cooking, she was drawing...even now, it feels like a dream.

“But in that part of the world, storms build quickly and suddenly. Out of nowhere, rain was falling in sheets and lightning and thunder fought each other directly overhead. The world felt like it was one big disco, like it was at the end of every episode.

“There was a flash, and a tingling, and a smell of burnt meat, and an explosion overhead. The world was dark. When it lightened again, the horses and carriage were gone. NekoNeechan was gone, too. A corpse with blood trickling from the corner of her perfect mouth. She’d been running to me, I guess, and got trampled by the horses. Even though she was like a pencil sketch in my eyes, I could see she was dead. The storm had killed her. I’d killed her for bringing her to the storm.” He looked up, and Magus saw a spark of enmity in the glassy pools of Gremio’s eyes. “ _ You _ killed her for telling me to take her there instead of on the boat.”

“I...I didn’t tell you to take her into the mountains!” Magus protested. 

“You told me to do something else for a date or else someone would die. I did, and she died.” Gremio’s voice rose a few tones, and he tugged at the chain. “It wasn’t my fault! It was yours! You killed her, Magus! You and your fucking advice killed my NekoNeechan!”

Magus ran for the door and pounded on it. “Let me out!” he called to the guard. Over his shoulder, he saw Gremio struggling to stand. His chains rattled as he slammed them over and over against the wall in an attempt to break them. 

The door opened and he slipped through. The guard slammed it shut and locked it just in time—Gremio seemed to have realized that the chain was long enough to reach the door. Snarling and spitting he rushed the reinforced wood panels. His skeletal fists pounded against it. “You killed her! Magus, you killed her!”   



	20. Aut Neca Aut Necare

Lucca scarcely looked up from her work as Magus burst in. “Back again so soon?” she asked coolly.

“What the fuck is going on?” demanded the magician around wheezing breaths. “I get Grem the win, and he’s pretty much dead. I save Grem, and NekoNeechan dies. What the actual fuck?”

“Time is messy. Time manipulation is messier.” Lucca held up some wires she’d twisted together and examined them in the late afternoon sunlight. “You, my friend, have changed it three times in a day. Of course it all seems strange.”

Magus caught his breath enough that he could stand straight up. “And how can I fix it?”

“Define ‘fix’ for me, please.” She peered at him over her thick glasses.

“‘Fix.’ Make it better. Make it so none of my friends die or have anything bad happen to them.”

Lucca shrugged. “You could go back and try to stop them before the date again.”

“How? Jump out and scare him? With my luck, it’d probably just get some random person killed. Next one on deck, Viktor. Or maybe even Albel or Sephiroth. Who knows? It’s anyone’s funeral at this point.”

The inventor set aside her tools. WIth one hooked finger she withdrew the key from the chain around her neck. “We know they’re in the carriage leaving town, and we know which road they’re taking. Let’s meet them somewhere.”

“And do what? Knock him out and take her?” 

“Why not? None of your other ideas have worked, and that way you’d know she was safe.”

This logic gave Magus pause. Why  _ not _ kidnap NekoNeechan? She’d agreed to be part of the competition, which meant that she at least liked all four of the contestants. He knew she liked him when he toned down the ridiculous pickup lines, so he’d worked on that, and he’d done better in the competition afterwards. There was no reason why she couldn’t just, like, fall for him completely. She was on a date with Gremio, for fiend’s sake! Talk about boring. Even when they lived together, even though they were best friends, Magus could more than admit that Gremio wasn’t necessarily the most interesting of people to have around. If their date ever  _ had _ finished, it would’ve been early rather than later, supposed the magician. Any time longer than, say, twenty minutes with Gremio would have her stealing the carriage and riding off by herself. 

“Kidnapping could work,” he said slowly, nodding.

Without hesitating she used the Time Key to summon a portal. Magus closed his eyes and stepped through, his stomach churning as the time steam swirled around him. For something like an eternity his mind stretched and his body compressed, buffeted by eerie winds. Voices whispered and shrieked their secrets in his ears, eat one forgotten as soon as he was approached by another. When the portal finally ended, fe felt like he’d been run through the wringer. He was more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling.

The portal appeared to have dropped them in the middle of a lush, green mountain forest. Birds chirped merrily on their perches, seemingly unfazed by the sudden appearance of human strangers in their midst. Leaves rustled as a light breeze tugged at their hair; it was far more refreshing than the wind in the portal had been. 

Lucca looked around appraisingly at their surroundings. “This should be the place.”

“And you’re sure it’s the right day? They’re not going to, I don’t know, just randomly show up four days from now because your timing is off?”

“I was working on a fix for that when you showed up,” she replied calmly. “I think I solved the problem, so we should be more accurate this time. And don’t forget,” the inventor added with a hint of a smug smile, “you were the one who didn’t bother to find out the correct date before your last trip back here.”

Magus glared at her, but his snappy comeback—and he was completely sure it would have been snappy and snarky and perfect for the occasion, had he had the time to actually come up with it—was cut off by the sound of creaking wheels and clopping hooves. “Quick, hide!” he hissed, diving into the bushes by the side of the road.

Lucca eyed him like he’d gone mad, but delicately stepped into the shadow of an ancient oak tree.

Just as the carriage was about to pass by, Magus dove out in front of it.


	21. Meus Es Tu

To their credit—and, frankly, Magus’ surprise—the horses hardly even balked as he dove in front of them. They hadn’t been going very fast, or else he might not have done it. He was fairly certain that he’d make an awful pancake. 

But luckily they stopped, nickering softly at one another. From inside the carriage, Magus heard NekoNeechan ask, “What’s wrong? Are we there?”

“We shouldn’t be,” responded Gremio.

“I’ll go take a look, then! Maybe they saw a snake or something, or a really big bug.”

“NekoNeechan, I’m sure that these horses wouldn’t balk at a simple insect.”

“A  _ really  _ big bug.” The door to the carriage opened, and NekoNeechan’s head popped out. Her short brown hair was bleached gold at the ends, and part of it was pinned back away from her face. She smiled broadly when she saw him. Her teeth were even and pearly white. She looked even more gorgeous than Magus remembered. “Heya!” she exclaimed, hopping down from the carriage proper. “Magus, what are you doing here?”

“What? Magus?” Gremio’s head emerged from the carriage, as well, and he glared under his golden bangs. “Didn't we just leave you behind? What are you doing here? I did as you asked. I’m not taking her on the boat. What is it that you want now, then?”

“Boat? You were going to take me on a boat?” NekoNeechan shook her head. “That would’ve been bad, yo. Like, super-extra bad. Boats and me don’t mix at all. Good job, Magus, for telling him that’d be bad.”

“You’re welcome,” the magician said absently. He looked from the annoyed visage of his best friend to the adoring smile of his favorite female. From the shadows, he saw Lucca hold up the Time Key.

This was it.

He lunged forward and grabbed NekoNeechan’s wrist in one of his slender-fingered hands. “Sorry, Grem,” he called, “but no date for you today. It’s my turn now!” He dragged NekoNeechan over to the oak tree and through the wildly swirling portal Lucca had created.

Time dilated and contracted, spinning them around like kites in a storm. Magus made sure he had a firm grip on NekoNeechan; her face dripped away, then reformed, flattened and twisted in sickening combinations before his eyes. Every single version was tinged with unhealthy green.

The trip this time didn’t seem quite as long, though. The portal opened, and the trio practically fell out onto a vast plain of waving grass. It wasn’t quite as warm as it’d been on the mountain, and only the sounds of wind moving past seed pods disturbed the silence. In the distance they could see bluish ridges rising towards the horizon, and the ground seemed to sink towards the sea on the other side.

“What is this place?” Magus asked, letting go of NekoNeechan to dust some spiky seed pods from his sweatshirt.

NekoNeechan took advantage of her newfound freedom to run behind Lucca. “‘What is this place?’” she repeated with barely-concealed outrage. “What the hell, Magus? Where did you take me?”

“Technically, I didn’t take you to...wherever this is.”

“A field about eight miles from South Window.”

“Right. Technically I didn’t bring you to a field eight miles from South Window. Lucca did.”

NekoNeechan stared at the inventor with horror and ran so that both she and Magus were the same distance from her. “What the hell? What about Gremio? Where’s Gremio? We’re supposed to go on a date today!”

“Nope, not anymore,” replied Magus. “You’re going out with me. It’ll be better, promise.”

Something in her expression softened, though the scowl didn’t quite leave her eyes. “Magus, c’mon, we talked about this back when we were starting the contest. Whoever wins gets the date with me, regardless of my actual feelings towards any of you. The prize is one single, teensy, little date. It’s not like a proposal of marriage or anything. Just me and the winner going out for a nice time. There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“I-I’m not jealous,” stammered Magus. He mentally kicked himself for the lapse. Swallowing hard, he continued, “I just know what Gremio had planned for you. The boat? Remember the boat? I talked him out of that for your benefit. And then he was going to take you to a picnic in the woods. The woods! With bugs! With  _ ticks _ ! Do you want ticks? Because going on a date with Gremio in the woods? That’s how you get ticks.”

NekoNeechan crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Fine, then. What do  _ you _ have planned for me, huh?”

“I’m glad you asked,” he replied.


	22. Aequore Ventis Aestate Sol

Water cascaded down over Magus’ lean body like a cool rainfall. What felt like weeks of grime sloughed away down the drain at his feet, joined by strands of purple-y hair. The cool water was a balm on his sore muscles and greasy skin. As he lifted his face into the spray, he vowed to never, ever let more than three days without a shower pass by again.

A knock on the bathroom door drew him from his musings, and he heard Lucca call out, “Are you going to be much longer? NekoNeechan is getting restless.”

“Coming,” Magus called back. Reluctantly he turned the shower off and stepped onto the luxuriously plush bath mat. The towel he wrapped around his lower half was equally cozy. It caught the dribbling trails of his soaking wet hair as he stepped out of the bathroom.

NekoNeechan hopped up and down in her place on one of the queen-sized beds. She wore a black-and-white striped bikini that barely contained the important bits, and every bounce threatened to dislodge them. Watching her, Magus was acutely glad he had _two_ layers of towel around his front.

When she saw him, NekoNeechan crawled off the bed and dashed up. “C’mon! It’s time to go!”

“I need my suit,” Magus pointed out, holding his towel tightly with one hand. “I don’t think they’ll let me out otherwise.”

“Have you _seen_ this place?” she replied with a wicked twinkle in her eye. “I’m pretty sure there’s a nude beach somewhere you can lie out on!”

“It would hardly be a date if we didn’t spend it together.” He glanced quickly at her tiny suit, then back at her face. “Unless you’d be joining _me_.”

“Nuh-uh! No way!” she squealed. She danced over to the door. “You’ve got two seconds to get your suit on before I leave without you!”

“You’d better do it,” Lucca said from her seat on a wingback chair in the corner. “She’ll combust if we keep her here too much longer.”

“All right, all right. Lemme put on my suit and we can go.” Magus grabbed a bag from the other bed and ducked back into the bathroom.

As he pulled on the violet spandex, he inwardly exulted. _Finally_ things seemed to be going right. NekoNeechan, aside from looking adorable in her swimsuit, had actually been pleasantly surprised when they showed up in sunny Costa del Sol, where the ocean breezes made the otherwise achingly humid weather tolerable. He’d paid out the nose for the swimsuits he’d bought—including Lucca’s, but he considered that a worthwhile expense, given everything the inventor had done for him. Watching NekoNeechan try them on, growing more excited by the minute, had been worth every single gil.

Worth it, too, was this hotel room. It perhaps wasn’t the swankiest, and it had views of the Corel Mountains in the distance instead of the sparkling ocean, but with the window shutters thrown open to catch the salty air, it was almost the same thing. It, like the suits, had put a crimp in his wallet, but he knew he could always make more money if he needed to. Hell, if it meant the date extended indefinitely, he’d get a job in town as a waiter or something. Someone was bound to need help as the tourist season ramped up. If not, well, Lucca was here. She could probably pop him to a time when he actually had cash to spend on someone as special as NekoNeechan.

The suit was a little tight, and he plucked it into place as a flurry of fists knocked on the door. “C’mon!” his date demanded. “I wanna go!”

He opened the door, his towel slung over his shoulder. NekoNeechan held a beach bag full of goodies in one hand: a big, stripey towel; tons of snacks; a portable, battery-powered radio; and a huge, unwieldy umbrella. He took the umbrella from her and rested it against his shoulder. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready!” His date dropped a pair of stylish sunglasses from the top of her head over her eyes and dashed towards the door.

Lucca grabbed a keycard from the tv table and stuck it in the pocket of her terry cloth coverup. “I’m not responsible for her actions.”

“I know,” Magus replied. He grabbed his own key and tucked it into his suit, where it was pressed tightly into his hip. “Feel free to find a cafe or something. Spend some time on your own.”

“And leave you alone with her? I think not. I’ll stay close.”

Magus wrinkled his nose. “You honestly think I’ll do something untoward?”

“No. I think you’re going to get in trouble and need me to bail you out.” She spun in one sandal and walked over to NekoNeechan, who was bouncing from one foot to the other on the hot stone sidewalk.

As he shut the door behind him, Magus had to admit she might have a point.


	23. In Aqua Sanitas

The sun beat down upon them relentlessly as they walked the twenty or so steps from their hotel to the white sands of the main beach. Years of post-Shinra environmental policies had resulted in debris-free water and pristine coastline, and the resort town had practically exploded in both population and popularity. Scores of sunbathers stretched out on lounge chairs and beach blankets, and little kids built sandcastles and buried each other. Swimmers and surfers caught the waves, and teenagers cried out as they splashed one another at the water’s edge. 

This,  _ this _ was the place to have a date.

NekoNeechan dropped her bag unceremoniously on the sand and began pawing through it. Her towel went down, first in a wrinkled heap, then neater as she flung it up in the air to straighten it out. Sand flew in every direction when she did so, and Lucca gave Magus a disapproving glare as it sprinkled against her pale skin.

“Magus, c’mon!” urged NekoNeechan. “Set up the umbrella...um...there! That way it’ll shade the towels and stuff.” She plopped down and wriggled herself a comfortable seat.

The magician did as he was told, anchoring the umbrella against the beach bag. His own towel he laid out haphazardly and almost on top of NekoNeechan’s—more comfortable for conversing, he decided he’d say if she asked. Behind him, Lucca was setting out a low folding chair of canvas with its own awning to protect her delicate skin from the scorching rays. A floppy hat shaded her face, and she’d clipped a pair of sunglasses over the thick lenses of her normal glasses. She pulled a thick book from the pocket of her cover up and opened it to her bookmark.

Magus ignored the inventor. As much as he was glad she was there, since he wouldn’t be if she wasn’t, he felt all too much like a little kid with a babysitter. It was so bad, in fact, that his voice trembled when he picked up the sunblock and asked, “NekoNeechan, do you need any help getting your back?”

“Nope! I’m good!” she replied. She dug through her bag and pulled out a container of fresh potato salad and a spoon. “I’ve got my snacks, and I’m hungry.”

“Okay. I just don’t want you to get burnt.” He popped the tube open and began lathering up.

“If I do, you can just aloe my back for me,” she replied around a mouthful of potato salad. 

He looked over at her sharply, and she winked. Magus swallowed hard and returned to swiping streaks of lotion on his cheeks. “I’ll do that if you need me to, but it’d be easier if you didn’t get burnt in the first place.”

NekoNeechan laughed, then stretched. “So, the beach, huh? How’d you know it was my favorite?”

“I, uh, like it, too. And I thought you would. You seemed to, anyway, during the competition.” He struggled to keep the question marks from his sentences.

“I do. But I thought you’d be more interested in snow and whatnot. A ski trip for a date. Or something super-ritzy, like Paris or Chicago or something. Something glamorous.” She stuffed another heaping spoonful of potato salad in her mouth.

“This isn’t glamorous enough for you?” he asked. “Well, I guess there aren’t any massive five-star resorts or anything around, but it’s still pretty nice to me.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly, mouth full. “This is plenty nice. This is way nicer than that fishing village and carriage thing Gremmy was setting up. But that kinda thing at least  _ seemed _ like him. This...I dunno. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Sephykun or Albel would do, either, but it doesn’t quite seem like you.”

“I’m full of surprises, I guess.” He stared out at the white-crested waves tumbling over the sand. “Hey, c’mon!” He hopped to his feet and held out his hand.

NekoNeechan stared at it like it was a tuna fish sandwich. “What?”

“Come with me. C’mon.” He reached down and plucked the spoon and salad from her grasp, then set them aside. He linked his hands with hers, pulled her up, and grinned. “Let’s go!” He dashed off towards the water, lavender hair streaking behind him, and NekoNeechan stumbling to keep up.

“Wait!” she cried. She shrieked as the icy ocean curled over her toes, and she jumped from one foot to the other to try to stay dry.

He laughed aloud at her reaction. The foam sashayed around his ankles, slipped away, and returned once more in its tidal tango. He drew her deeper into the water. “It gets better the further you go in. It’s refreshing.”

“I don’t know…” she replied, but she followed him into the waves. There, waist-deep in the crystal-blue water, he didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look as beautiful as NekoNeechan did at that moment.

So he told her.   



	24. Ad Lunae Lumina

The evening breeze off the water ruffled their hair. Sand, still a bit warm from the now-set sun, squished up pleasantly between their bare toes. NekoNeechan’s gauzy wrap dress fluttered around her ankles, showing off her newly-tanned legs. Her hand was small and soft and warm in Magus’, and he sighed with happiness.

“This has been an awesome date,” NekoNeechan agreed.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

She smiled up at him. “I can read your mind.” She wiggled the fingers of her free hand in a mystical gesture.

“So, what am I thinking now?” He scrunched his face up. _You’re the most beautiful person in any universe_.

“That...you’d like to get some more of those crab fries.”

“Exactly right.” _Can’t win ‘em all_.

They walked a few hundred more feet in companionable silence, hands linked. The water reflected the moon and the stars above them; this part of the beach, at least, was fairly secluded. Costa del Sol was a faint glow on the northern horizon. To the south stretched a long, pale corridor of sand and, beyond that, the inky sea. In the distance, he thought he could hear the howl of a wolf.

Beside him, NekoNeechan paused and shivered.

“We’re safe,” Magus said. He tugged at the sleeve of his button-down shirt and turned his wrist. He pointed to the tattoo he had there. “I got this awhile ago in North Window.”

NekoNeechan took his hand and raised it to the moonlight to see. “That’s really cool! But...what is it?”

“It’s a Champion’s Rune. I got tired of getting attacked while running back and forth to the portals between worlds, so I figured I’d drop some potch on it. There are tiny flakes of crystals embedded in it, and the shape they form is the symbol for the rune.”

“If you look at it sideways, it sort of looks like a meteor. Funny, huh? Us being here and you with a meteor tattoo?”

“Right,” Magus said, more to agree than because he really understood the joke. “Anyway, I convinced Grem to get one, too, so he’d be safe. He said something about it still not protecting him from plants, but I told him the little ones would stay awake, at least.” He grinned in the darkness.

NekoNeechan let go of his hand with a sigh. “Y’know, Magus, this really has been great. The hotel, the beach, the clothes, the food—that eggplant parm was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten—”

“Right? And I don’t even _like_ eggplant.”

“But…” She turned her face up to him, a beacon in the moonlight except for the shadow of sunburn brushed across her cheeks and nose. “But, Magus, this wasn’t supposed to be your date.”

His heart fell a bit. “I know.”

“It was supposed to be Gremio’s. He won, after all. And even if his date wasn’t gonna be as fun as this—a boat ride would been awful, and a picnic in the woods doesn’t sound creative at all—it was still his date to bring me on.”

“It was, and I feel bad about taking that chance away from him.” And, surprisingly, aside from the whole one-or-the-other-of-you-dying-horribly thing, he actually did. The realization startled him, but not enough that he was ready to give in right away. “But I did really well in the contest, too, didn’t I? Don’t I deserve a chance to take you out?”

“Of course you do! All four of you did. But Gremio won, so he should, at the very least, get to go first. You understand, don’t you?”

He hung his head. “Yeah…”

NekoNeechan stepped forward and slipped her hand into Magus’. “Don’t worry! I still heart you! And this really was an awesome date. I can’t imagine how anyone else would top it!”

He squeezed her hand and turned back towards town. “I can’t, either.”

As they meandered back to their hotel, NekoNeechan chattered on about how she hoped the other dates would go. For his part, Magus wondered how he’d ever let her go.


	25. Lex Talionis

Rhythmic pounding jarred Magus from his dreams. He had been happily dreaming about skipping through flower-filled fields with NekoNeechan at his side, cupcakes raining from the sky in a delicious confectionary shower. The pounding coincided with an ache in his neck; the wingback chair wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place to sleep, even with a pillow tucked around his neck and his feet propped up on the suitcase rack.

Thunk.

Thunk thunk thunk.

Thunk.

He blearily rubbed his eyes. A sudden thought chased all grogginess away, and he quickly glanced at the queen-sized beds. No, Lucca and NekoNeechan were both in their own, as they had been when he’d turned out the light for the night. The inventor was fumbling for her glasses, though. They shone where they caught the moonlight as she put them on. “What is that?” she hissed.

“I don’t know,” Magus whispered back. He paused for a moment. “It sounds like it’s coming from outside, not next door.”

He could feel more than see her rolling her eyes. “Well, then, why don’t you go check?” she asked in a pinched voice.

Magus sighed and stood, carefully wrapping the bedsheet around him. Though he’d dropped cash on outdoor clothes and swimsuits, he hadn’t quite remembered to grab some pajamas. He wasn’t quite ready to answer the door in his underpants...even if they  _ did _ cover more than his bathing suit had.

He couldn’t see anyone outside through the peephole, but the thunking on the door was hard enough to rattle the lock. He slid the lock open but left the chain, his heart thudding in his chest, and peeked out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing at this time of night?”

A fist on the door tore the chain from its mooring in the wall, throwing the door open and driving Magus backwards, almost into Lucca’s bed. He slid off it and fell, hard, onto the carpet. Four shadowy figures crowded the room. One flipped on the light, blinding the occupants, and Magus clawed spots from his eyes in an attempt to identify the intruders.

“Where is she?” a husky voice asked. A hand that smelled of oiled steel grabbed the front of his bedsheet-cloak and dragged him upwards.

“Here she is!” another voice answered. This one was a few tones deeper, but far clearer. “NekoNeechan, are you okay?”

“Mmmh?” she muttered. Glancing in the mirror, Magus could see her trying to tug the fluffy feather comforter over her sleep-mussed head. The silvery-haired figure beside her attempted to pull it down. “Go ‘way,” she mumbled, swatting at him ineffectively.

“Is she okay?” a more familiar voice asked. “She was fine earlier, but I don’t know what  _ he _ has done to her.”

“She doesn’t seem hurt,” the second man said. “Just...asleep.”

“Good,” a final voice, female and clear, said. Shoes shuffled over the carpet, and this figure addressed Magus. “What the actual fuck do you think you were doing?”

Magus blinked and gasped for air. “Albel, lemme go. I’m not about to run or anything.”

The other man glanced towards the female, who shrugged. The pressure of the bedsheet around his neck eased, and he sat himself on the bed. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. “Okay, what are all you doing here? Albel? Seph? Grem? MC?”

“A better question might be, what are  _ you _ doing here?” Albel growled.

“Please,” MC said crisply. “I’ll handle the interrogation. You go watch the door.”

He nodded and backed away towards the door. Magus readjusted the bedsheet, curling his toes in the carpet. “Well?”

“I’m here because I got a frantic message from Gremio two weeks ago.”

Magus glanced at Lucca from the corner of his eye. She remained stoic. “I didn’t realize it’d been so long.” That, at least, was true. He hadn’t exactly paid attention to the calendar before the craziness in Radat or after getting to Costa del Sol.

“Well, I guess you wouldn’t know anything about her disappearing in the woods, or her turning up here earlier today, hmm? Or about interrupting a certain date that was supposed to occur?” MC crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her sapphire gaze at him. “And you most certainly wouldn’t care that the punishment for such behavior is a grounding like you wouldn’t believe.”

Magus swallowed hard. “Grounding?”

“Perpetual.” 

Shit.


	26. Morior Invictus

There had to be a way out of this. He knew MC well enough that, if it was just the two of them, he might be able to talk her into something more reasonable. With the others here, though—even with just NekoNeechan here—the likelihood of him being able to convince MC to let him off easy was almost nil.

But with the others here, too...with Albel guarding the door, and with NekoNeechan in bed behind him...he couldn’t exactly fight his way out, either. Even if he had his trusty scythe, he couldn’t risk hurting MC or NekoNeechan, and he didn’t _really_ want to hurt his friends, either, even if they were pretty much imprisoning him. And he didn’t dare use his magic in case of collateral damage. Not to mention Albel had his claw and sword techs and Grem had a water rune tattoo and Seph was practically _made_ of magic. The level of destruction they could all cause if he tried starting shit was nothing short of catastrophic.

He was trapped.

Magus sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly. “I...it was just unfair. I knew I could give her a good date, and I just couldn’t wait.”

“So you kidnap her from me for _two weeks_?!” Gremio’s voice rose alarmingly at the end of his exclamation.

MC shot him a glare, and in the mirror Magus could see the blond man shrink a bit. “That wasn’t the deal,” she said, turning her attention back to the magician. “The competition was all about the winner getting to take NekoNeechan on a date. If you and NekoNeechan had an arrangement, then you should have waited until after Gremio had his turn.”

“I’m sorry…”

The redhead sighed and looked over his head at the pair beside NekoNeechan’s bed. “How is she?”

“Just grumping at us when we try to wake her up,” Sephiroth said, tucking one silver bang behind his ear.

“So, normal.” MC nodded and glanced at Lucca, who was sitting upright in bed, a book in her hands. “And you? What are you doing here?”

The inventor adjusted her glasses, but didn’t look up. “Just biding my time chaperoning.”

This, if nothing else, seemed to startle MC. “‘Chaperoning’?”

“Nothing untoward will happen under my watch. I don’t know if you realized this, but Magus was sleeping in the chair in a two-bed room.”

“Sleeping in a chair for two weeks straight?” MC blinked at Magus, as if really seeing him for the first time.

He shrugged in response. “I wasn’t trying to sleep with her on the date. I just wanted to make sure she had fun.” He crossed his fingers and mentally begged the universe to let him get away with this. All NekoNeechan would need to do is wake up enough to say they’d only been together for a single day and it’d be over. MC would want to know how, Lucca would have to say it was the Time Key, and that’d be it. MC would force them to open a portal back to their time, toss them in, and confiscate the key. He’d be stuck with whatever future he’d created.

Even if it meant someone’s death.

No way would that be acceptable.

“She’s safe and sound now. I know what I did was wrong, and I swear it won’t happen again. Don’t blame Lucca, either. I dragged her into this. Just let us go back home, and I’ll even pay for another few nights here, if Grem wants to have his date with NekoNeechan in Costa del Sol.” He knew he sounded like he was begging, but there was just about nothing else he could do at the moment. He had to convince MC to let him go, if only so he could see what he’d done.

She seemed swayed, though, if the expression on her face was anything to judge by. “You still need some kind of punishment, but I’d agree to financial compensation.” She glanced at Gremio over Magus’ shoulder. “If that would be acceptable to you?”

Gremio looked like he was about to argue, but NekoNeechan stirred slightly. Her hand slipped out from under the blanket and found its way into his. “Is sleepy,” she murmured. “Too loud now.”

He could’ve kissed her.

Gremio nodded at MC, then looked at Magus. “Leave your money pouch. I’ll talk to the innkeep about staying here.”

“You got it.” He stood and grabbed his new, though wrinkled, jeans and pulled his coin from it, all the while fighting tears of relief.


	27. Et Tardus Poema

MC brought Magus and Lucca back to Truce through a special portal she created using her laptop. Snow covered the landscape in a cottony blanket, and Magus’ teeth immediate started chattering as an icy wind cut through him. Despite his childhood spent in the ancient wilds above a glacial planet, he’d never truly gotten used to temperatures low enough to mean snow.

And this day, right here, was more than cold enough.

Lucca glanced around. “Where are we, exactly?”

Magus, too, tried to examine his surroundings. Having spent the past ten years of his life in North Window, he hadn’t exactly followed the expansion of the town. When he came—if he came—he typically just headed for the island on which Lucca’s house stood. Now, though, everything looked completely different. He couldn’t even see a bridge under the white expanse.

“This is Truce,” MC said simply. “Year 600 A.D., of course. I thought you might like to go home. Unless there was some other place and time you’d like to be?” She leveled her gaze over her glasses at him.

A chill, internal this time, raced down Magus’ spine. “‘600 A.D.’?” He repeated, feeling slightly dizzy.

“Yes. This is where you live, isn’t it? And  _ when _ you live?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Um, over there, I think.” He gestured aimlessly towards the glowing lights of the town in the distance.

“Then we’d better not keep you. Make sure you do what you’re supposed to, now.” She shooed him away.

He turned and began trudging off. A few feet from their landing place, he turned and looked forlornly over his shoulder. MC waved cheerfully. He sighed, hung his head, and kept moving.

The snow sparkled as MC took Lucca through a laptop portal.

The wind whistled through his clothes, the dress shirt under his grimy sweatshirt. Snow soaked his sneakers and socks, prickling his feet with needle-like efficiency. Each gust threw up puffy flakes from off the ground, and they stung his exposed skin. The sun was setting below the skeletal trees, and the moon was rising on the opposite horizon, luminous and almost too close. He would have sworn—and loudly, too—if he thought he wouldn’t accidentally bite his tongue off. Instead he warmed himself with mental images of torching everything in sight.

He stumbled his way for what felt like miles towards Truce, and just when the world started to curl in at the edges of his vision he practically walked into the side of the tavern. He gritted his teeth and fought the wind that whipped through town towards the door.

It slammed open against the wall when he pushed it, and he nearly fell on his face on the wide, plank floor. “Ale,” he croaked. “As much as you’ve got.”

The bartender stared at him like he was a ghost.

“Ale,” Magus demanded once more, slumping into a chair beside the roaring fireplace. “Please.”

That seemed to break the spell, and people began moving again. A serving wench in a low-cut top brought out a coarse woolen blanket, which she wrapped around Magus’ hunched shoulders. A scruffy-bearded man, the bartender’s husband, if Magus’ memory served him correctly, rushed out with another couple logs to dump onto the fire. The bartender herself brought him a foaming tankard in one hand and a steaming mug of something cinnamon-y in the other. She dropped them on the table her husband dragged over. “Anything else, sir?” they asked, wringing their hands.

“Thanks,” he replied. He drew a long, deep draught of the ale, and the cool liquid immediately began defrosting his veins. He kicked off his shoes and with his long toes tugged off his socks. The blanket scratched at his neck, but it was warm and cozy, particularly with the blaze roaring in front of him. He drained the tankard, placed it on the table, and slowly began sipping from the mug. Mulled cider. Perfect.

The bartender and her husband exchanged glances. Timidly, she asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.” 

The couple backed away, their postures strangely differential.

Magus barely noticed. He snuggled down under his blanket, stretching his toes out towards the hearth. It was late. He’d just barely managed to save his skin. Figuring out where to go from here and how to get back to his own time would just need to wait until the morning. 

Figuring out how to pay would wait until the morning.


	28. Nosce Te Ipsum

When Magus approached the desk in the morning, dry shoes and socks on his feet, blanket folded neatly over his arm, the man on duty visibly shrank back from him. Unlike the previous night, this behavior caught him off-guard. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

The man cowered even more. “Nothing, your Lordship. Nothing at all. I apologize for the roughness of your accommodations. Please, we meant no offense. We offered the best we had.”

“And it was more than sufficient,” Magus replied in the most soothing tone he could muster. The man seemed to expect more. “Um...I’m sorry, but I don’t have any coin at the moment—”

“Oh, no, your Lordship! We wouldn’t dream of accepting money from you!” He visibly blanched. “That is, not that we wouldn’t welcome your coin, but we would never expect it, but if you chose to give it to us, we—” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He dropped to his knees behind the counter. “Please, your Lordship, don’t burn down our inn.”

Magus stared. “I would never...what sort of cretin would  _ do _ such a thing?”

All the air seemed to escape the man in an audible gust. “Are you sure? You’re really not going to burn down our inn? You’re not just saying that now, and then you’ll start leaving and turn around and cast a fire spell and cackle gleefully while we burn to death?”

Had he a mirror to see it, Magus was sure he wouldn’t be able to describe the look of horror that twisted his face. “Are you kidding? What—or who—gave you that idea?”

“S-s-sir Ozzie, your Lordship. He said that anyone who defied him or you or didn’t treat you both with the utmost respect would be k-k-k-k-killed.”

Oh. Right. Magus could’ve kicked himself. He’d left Ozzie in charge while he was off competing, and somehow word hadn’t made it back home that Magus hadn’t won.

Wait.

Had it ever?

Magus did some quick mental math. Two weeks since the date was supposed to officially happen, plus four days since the end of the contest, give or take ten years since he’d originally been living in North Window with the original Gremio…

Had he  _ ever _ made it back to tell Ozzie his tenure was done?

Oops.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Tavern guy!” Magus said in his brightest, most cheerful tone. “I’m going to go set Ozzie straight so he won’t bother you ever again!” He stuck out his hand.

The man looked at it, face bleached-bedsheet pale. With a little moan his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground in a heap.

Magus looked down at his hand, then back at the man.

Double oops.

“I’ll pay them back when I get some cash,” he murmured. He bent down and unlaced the man’s boots, fur-lined with leather surrounds. They fit perfectly over his shoes and laced up practically to the knee. The wool blanket was a decent makeshift cloak, especially with a scarf tying it closed at the neck. With a bit of rummaging behind the counter, he found some thick gloves and an earflapped cap, both also with fur lining. It was the best he could do on such short notice, he decided, and he scribbled down an I-O-U note for the owners when they got in.

The weather outdoors was calmer than it’d been the evening before. The wind, at least, had died down considerably, and that alone seemed to send the temperature soaring. Mid-morning sun beat down on crisp, white snow, making it glitter like a room full of diamonds. The dazzling sight made his eyes water, and tears started to trickle down his cheeks. 

Sunglasses. He removed one glove and patted his pocket. There. He’d never been so glad that NekoNeechan had made him buy something, except maybe when she had him change outfits for the competition. One-handed he opened them and stuck them on his face. The world turned grayish blue, and he felt like he could breathe again. With the end of his scarf he scraped the tears away, then looked around.

Which way was it to get to his old stronghold?

South.

Right.

He stuck his bare hand back in the glove, hitched the blanket closer around his shoulders, and began to walk.


	29. Unius Ut Perderent

The path to the palace wasn’t so awful as the walk to town the night before, due mostly to his warm gear. The boots had a broad enough footprint to keep him from falling through the icy crust at the top of the snow, and the blanket, while not as nice as a fur cloak would have been, was pretty good at diverting the worst of the wind. The hood of his sweatshirt protected his ears when the wind did start later in the day, but it wasn’t the worst trip he’d ever endured. 

Still, he was looking forward to the moment when the palace loomed on the horizon. He remembered it being vaguely reminiscent of the palace at Zeal where he’d grown up. He’d done that deliberately; as a child, a rogue portal had sent him careening thousands of years in the future. He’d built his castle as an homage to the glory of his past, as well as an example of what the people of his adopted time could aspire to. Shining white towers with onion-like domes covered in gold leaf would glisten in the sun, and stained-glass windows would sparkle like jewels. It hadn’t quite been finished when MC had called him up for the competition, and after losing— 

His train of thought was completely derailed when he saw the first spire rising above the forest. The turrets, rather than round, were spiky and shingled in black slate. His pristine white marble walls had been painted a hideous midnight purple, and sharp-toothed gargoyles had replaced the ornate statues he’d commissioned to honor heroes of his homeland. His footsteps crunched on the snow as he ran, a horrible suspicion rising from within him.

When he arrived in the courtyard, it was confirmed.

The beautiful golden statue of his sister, Schala, was completely gone.

In its place was an ugly bronze, rough-edged and nearly as terrifying as the creature it depicted. Heavy jowls hung below a pair of massive ruby eyes, and actual diamonds dotted the crude rings on sausage fingers. The robes looked unfinished, but they were traced with greenish streaks of corrosion, like whoever had created the statue hadn’t bothered to treat it before its unveiling. Even with some of the metal eaten away, the weight of it had cracked the marble base on which it stood.

“Ozzie,” Magus growled. He hitched his cloak closer around his body and stomped up the courtyard path. 

The doors were guarded by a sleepy-looking monster in mismatched iron armor. A rusty sword had been stuck in the heap of snow by the side of the building. He barely looked up as Magus approached. “Lord Ozzie is not hearing any petitioners today. He’s sick and tired of hearing about you pathetic peasants and your whining about ‘Please don’t eat my husband, I’m a measly woman and need him to earn money.’ Maybe you should’ve thought about that before being born. Now, go away before I gut you like a fish and swallow your liver whole.”

“‘Lord Ozzie’?” Magus asked between clenched teeth.

The guard looked up, then reached for his sword in the snow. The blade caught, and he yanked as Magus stepped forward, pulling down his hood. He reached out, wrapped one hand around the hilt, and snapped the whole thing in two.

Cowering, the guard begged, “My lord! Lord Magus! I am so glad to see you! You wouldn’t believe what Ozzie’s made me do!”

Magus lifted the hilt and brought it crashing down on the guard’s helmet. The iron dented in more than it probably should have, bearing the brunt of the magician’s anger. He spent a lifetime building up a reputation, trying to impress the locals, being good and kind and generous, and  _ this _ is what happens? He’s gone for literally two minutes and one of his underlings decides— 

Ugh.

Magus stormed in through the front doors, his lavender hair and blanket cloak streaming behind him. Low pedestal torches lit the corridors, which had been painted the same sooty violet shade as the exterior of the building. Bats flew in the rafters, and he could hear rats scrabbling along the walls, their rest disturbed by his passage. The ornate leaded windows had been covered with heavy velvet curtains, and the carpet that covered the dusty granite floors was moth-eaten and ragged around the edges. Everything smelled like urine and garbage—which, given some of critters sent scattering by his stomping, wouldn’t have been surprising at all.

The guards at the throne room doors dropped their weapons and vanished at his approach; a single glance at Magus’ stony expression was more than they could handle. He murmured a few choice phrases, held up one hand, and blew in the heavily carved panels with a well-placed fire spell. Chunks of wood stuck in cheap, plaster pillars that had been erected in his absence.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a high-pitched voice squealed from the shadows.”

“Ozzie…!” Magus called. He held up his hand, still glowing with the remnants of his fire spell. “I, Magus, am returned!”  


	30. Vetus Amicus, Vetus Inimicus

For what it was worth, Ozzie managed not to soil himself upon recognizing his master in the doorway. He did, however, nearly fall over himself sliding down from the wide, ebony throne. His robe caught on one of the gargoyles festooning the base, and the cheap silk tore, leaving a buttock-exposing hole. Inwardly, Magus flinched at this, disgusted at his second-in-command’s lack of underpants. Not that he would’ve kept such a vile piece of furniture, but now he added it to his ever-growing list of things to torch.

But not yet.

He had Ozzie to deal with first.

In three long strides Magus had covered the distance between himself and his putrid minion. His fist crackled with barely-contained energy. Ten years of long practice had taught him how to compartmentalize his rage; it was a skill he’d needed to master living with Gremio, whose fussy and neurotic nature about virtually everything made him hard to get along with on a sometimes hourly basis. Here, now, in the remade ruins of his pristine palace, he was angry, yes. Livid, even. But he was in control. He would only zap Ozzie if he needed to.

Ozzie didn’t know this.

Ozzie still thought this was the previous Magus, the Magus who didn’t understand the difference deep breaths made in preventing himself from incinerating everything in his path. The Magus who thought the threat of violence among his minions could keep them in line and protect innocent humans.

And here, now, Magus was banking on the fact that Ozzie was currently fearing for his own life.

He raised his hand, sending sparks dripping to the floor, fizzling just in time to not set the rug on fire. “Ozzie, what is going on?”

“Your Lordship, I have been carrying on your good works in your name since you’ve been gone,” groveled the rotund creature. “I send emissaries out to collect on debts and see what the people need.”

Magus thought back to the innkeeper, her husband, and the other terrified individuals. “Really, now?” he asked.

Ozzie nodded like one of NekoNeechan’s bobble head toys.

“Which is why I was catered to, not with gratitude at my generosity or excitement at my presence, but genuine fear, right?”

The creature pouted grotesquely. “It is only right they fear your power, your Lordship. You’re stronger than any of them! You can crush them with a single blow! You can decimate their homes and slaughter their livestock! Their very lives hang in the balance at your will! If you show mercy, they’ll take advantage of you, and you’ll be surrounded by those sniveling wretches day in and day out. Better instead to show them who’s boss and demand their obedience!”

The magician narrowed his eyes at his minion, who was practically foaming at the mouth in his fervor. This wasn’t a good sign. “So you’ve been doing these things, this livestock-murder and house-destruction, while I’ve been gone?”

“In your Lordship’s name and honor, of course!”

Nope, definitely not a good sign.

He spoke so quietly that even the skittering vermin in the walls and rafters and corridors seemed to pause. “I spent more than half my life creating a home for myself here. I built this palace stone by stone as something for them to not only envy, but to aspire to. I held classes for farmers on irrigation and animal husbandry. I employed local carpenters and taught them techniques for crafting everything from finer, safer houses to sturdy, long-lasting furniture. I introduced them to spices and exquisite dishes, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in millennia. My entire goal was to settle among these people and be hailed, if not as a hero, then a helper. I’m gone six months, and you’ve turned me into some sort of vengeful god.”

“I did this for you!” squeaked Ozzie, dropping thunderously to his knees on the floor.

“And I’m doing this for me, too.” The crackling in Magus’ hand intensified, and he raised it towards the ceiling. An otherworldly howling tore into the room. A fiery wind picked up, tossing the poorly-made furnishings into a spinning tower that stretched into the darkened vault of the ceiling. Winter sunlight poured in through the windows as the curtains were torn from their moorings. Dust and vermin joined the tornado as it whipped around, hissing with sparks and flashes of static electricity. Magus’ hair danced around his face, stinging where it landed. The pain only served to intensify the power of his spell.

At the center of it all huddled Ozzie. The creature screamed as the winds tore the furniture into splinters and shredded the fabric. “Don’t hurt me!” He begged in a voice blubbery with terror.  


“Oh, don’t worry,” Magus said grimly. He snapped his fingers, and the wind vanished. Debris rained down in a narrow circle around his former second-in-command. “I won’t be the one hurting you.”

He spun on one heel and stalked off.


	31. Leges Sine Moribus Vanae

The villagers hid when he came riding up on the makeshift sledge he built from the remains of whatever he could find. Ozzie’s loyal guards dragged it along, stripped to the waist and bewelted from the riding crop Magus had found; one of his favorite rooms, a basement sauna, had apparently been used as part of Ozzie’s “torture complex,” and it had been equipped accordingly. Oh, the lashings he’d dispensed for  _ that _ particular lapse in judgement! They had been long, hard, and glorious.

When he began deriding the monsters in the middle of the town square, he noticed a few shutters open a crack and curious eyes peer out. When he unveiled the iron cage in which a seriously demoralized Ozzie crouched, the shutters opened a little wider. When Magus pulled out coffers and offered apologies in the forms of financial and physical compensation, a few of the braver citizens came to inspect the treasure. And when Magus pulled out baskets of rotting fruit, vegetables, eggs, and other, viler, alternatives, the villagers appeared in droves. 

“I cannot possibly describe my disappointment in this former minion; I left him in charge with the orders that he preserve my legacy. Instead, he shat upon it in virtually every way possible: figuratively, through his meddling with your lives and livelihoods, and literally—my home, too, reeks of his corrupt and uncouth nature.”

Magus would then survey the crowd. “I have brought him here because you, too, must wish him as much harm as he brought to you. I offer him up to your vengeance, whatever form that may take. Just bear in mind that your village is not the only one which suffered under his hands, and I would like to allow others the same opportunities that you have had.”

The villagers would exchange looks as understanding dawned on them, and a few would approach the baskets. A growing excitement built among the onlookers, and someone—usually a child in a ragged tunic—would be the first to hurl fruit or muck or stone into the cage. His roar of defiance would spur the others to action, and before long, filth would be flying every which way. Magus, too, would sometimes find himself a target; he accepted this fate as part of his own punishment for poorly-made decisions. 

After a time, the crowd would grow restless; stoning awful creatures in cages wasn’t exactly sport. Magus would dispense the treasures he’d brought and offer the villagers an opportunity to come improve the palace, with an eye towards restoring it to its former glory. Most of them would make vague noises of reluctance—not that he could blame them at all. They’d been used and abused while he’d been gone, and he knew if someone treated him that way, he more likely than not would be adverse to offering any sort of assistance. Still, he’d tell them that high-paying jobs and training were available to any who wished them. He’d pack the remainder of the things he’d brought back onto the sledge, sit back on the seat, and head home to clean up and prepare for the next day’s journey.

It took him two weeks to hit every village on the continent. He saved Truce for last, and he visited the inn and tavern in particular, carrying two sacks. The smaller was full of coins to repay them for the trouble they’d gone to upon his sudden arrival; the larger held fine clothes and cold-weather gear of the highest quality to replace the things he’d taken. “I’m sorry for everything,” he apologized, bowing low.

The innkeeper and her husband and everyone else had been beyond taken aback. In fact, they practically tripped over themselves trying to refuse. “It was our honor to help you, your Lordship!”

“But you were so helpful to a weary traveler in need, and you deserve just compensation,” he’d retorted. 

“But we can’t possibly accept! You’re too generous!” they’d replied. 

This exchange went on for an embarrassingly long period of time. It was at least an hour. Halfway through, he was having trouble coming up with different ways to say essentially the same thing. In the end, Magus had basically just left the sacks on the floor of the taproom and returned to his carriage.  _ If they truly didn’t want repayment,  _ he figured, _ let them come to his place and give it back. _

He wasn’t surprised when they didn’t.

Back at his palace, though, he set about putting the most loyal of his minions to work repairing the damage Ozzie had caused. Most changes were cosmetic and easily fixed, and a surprising number of rooms, though now dusty and cobwebbed, had been left untouched by his second-in-command’s goth-spree. It was amazing what a fresh coat of paint and some elbow grease could do, and nothing was quite as satisfying as the bonfire he created in the courtyard with ugly furnishing around the bronze Ozzie statue.

As he watched the flames rise high into the winter night, he wondered why he’d never come back in the first place, ten years earlier. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember, and the merrily crackling blaze offered no answers of its own.


	32. Quod Iustum Est

The field of fireworks was inviting. They waved him closer, their sparkly blossoms bobbing in the gentle springtime breeze. They were a thousand different colors shimmering in the noontime sun, no less bright with it there. So vast was the field that the edges were lost to the curve of the horizon. The cerulean sky was rimmed with puffy cotton ball clouds shifting in endless shapes: dragons, dinosaurs, donkeys. Acrid smoke from each burst drifted around his ankles, curling like a purring cat. Each new burst sent an echoing boom around the bowl containing the field, but none of them hurt his ears like real fireworks tended to. He looked over and smiled at the figure beside him. Their face was hazy, and they didn’t speak, but something about them tugged at Magus’ heart. There was love here, and sharing this strange world with them was all that he’d ever wanted to do. He had to demonstrate it. He leaned in close, lips pursed in a perfect pucker—

And stopped when his throat met steel.

Magus’ eyes flew open wide, and he willed himself back down into the pillow. He felt a hot droplet trickle down the side of his neck as the sharp sensation eased. He didn’t dare move his head to see what was causing it, but he blinked away the last vestiges of sleep. “Hello?” he said as clearly and calmly as he could manage. “What do you want from me?”

“Thy life, thou insolent swine!”

Magus blinked again, then raised his head ever so slightly to turn it towards the voice. “...Glenn?”

The steel pressed close, and the magician was forced back into the squishy mattress. “How darest thou use my name? Thou hast no right! I take it from thee with my blade!”

“Yes, I can feel that,” Magus replied, gritting his teeth against the sting. “Could you maybe ease up on it a bit, though? It’s going to be hard to carry on a conversation like this.”

“I want no words from thee, coward!” The sword, however, stopped pressing quite deep.

“What do you want, then?” Magus resisted the urge to sit up, but he readied himself to cast a spell under the covers if need be. Not that he wanted it to come to that, but…

The bed creaked as Glenn shifted positions, presumably to keep his balance. “My revenge!”

“Well, yes, obviously. I got that part. But revenge for _what_?”

The seconds ticked past in a lengthy silence. “Dost thou not remember?”

“If I did, wouldn’t I tell you?”

When Glenn spoke once more, his voice was thick. “Thou treatest me first with pity, then with kindness, then with love, and then discardeth me like an unwanted plaything!”

All of the sudden memory struck Magus. They’d defeated Lavos and returned to the year 600 together, leaving their companions to their own times. Upon their return, Glenn had remained in his cursed frog-form, despite everything the royal magicians of Guardia could do. He’d left stoically, with only his Masamune blade and a satchel on his shoulder. Magus had followed him and invited him to his palace. Glenn had initially refused, but soon gave in, seeing no other options.

And then, one night as he wandered the halls, Magus had heard someone softly weeping. He entered Glenn’s room, comforted him, and kissed his forehead.

Sometimes fairy tales come true, and that one apparently was one of them. A green glow enveloped Glenn, and when it receded, a handsome young man with serious eyes and battle-scarred hands was sitting in place of the amphibian. Magus had rescued Glenn, and Glenn had grown...attached.

Too attached.

It was fun at first. It was romantic when Glenn prepared a candlelit dinner all by himself. It was cute when he laid a path of rose petals to the oversized bed in Magus’ quarters. And it was certainly enjoyable the things they’d done in that bed. But after a few months, it had all started grating on Magus’ nerves. Glenn nagged him about eating pastries instead of protein for breakfast. The way he’d ambush Magus out of the blue “to keep him in shape, since none knew whence the next attack might come.” The way his eyes would track Magus’ every move, and how Magus would leave a room for a moment to get a drink and he’d return to Glenn fluffing up the pillows. He’d stub his toe on a chair and Glenn would come running with ointment, a bandage, and a flurry of kisses to “maketh it better.”

The day he got the message from MC about a competition for a date with NekoNeechan, he’d rolled the idea over in his head for hours. He’d only really met NekoNeechan the one time, when MC had hosted a cast party for NekoNeechan’s birthday. She’d seemed nice enough, funny and interesting, but on the whole, not entirely his type.

Under the circumstances, though, the choice was easy.

So he slipped out from the covers, pulled on the first clothes he could find, and told Ozzie he was in charge for the next six months.

And then, in ten years, he didn’t bother coming back.

Oops.


	33. Homo Poenitens Transierit

“First, Glenn, let me tell you, whatever Ozzie said was a lie,” Magus began slowly, trying to quell his racing heart.

“Ozzie toldest me naught! He tookst up a broom and called out, ‘Flee, vermin!’ ‘ere he chasest me out the palace. I had mine sword and trousers in the heat of July!”

“Then, um, that was wrong of him. I told him to tell you that there was something I needed to do, but that you should stay here until I got back.”

“Why didst you not tell me this yourself?” Despite the toughness of his pose, Glenn’s voice was strangely petulant.

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you, since it didn’t seem like you’d been sleeping well lately. Er, I mean, lately before that.” Magus would’ve shrugged if he thought it wouldn’t have startled the man into cutting him a new airhole.

“Thou couldst not have written me a note? Some small token of thine intent for me to clutch in the lonely months that followed?” Now his tone was definitely petulant. Even ten years later, Magus felt the same old annoyance rising from his gullet.

“I didn’t have time. The thing that happened came up suddenly. Really suddenly. Like, I had just enough time to throw some stuff into a bag and run out. I’m surprised Ozzie didn’t tell you any of this. I mean, less now, seeing what I came home to here in my castle and everything, but still surprised. He should’ve been lording it over you.”

Glenn was silent, and then in a steady, though quiet voice, he asked, “And where didst thou go?”

“Um...a journey. To another world. One of my friends needed me, and I had no choice. I would’ve brought you along, too, but it could only be me.”

“Why?”

Magus swallowed hard, and he felt his Adam’s apple brush the blade. Even in his current state, he had to admire the control his former lover had over the sword. He was pretty sure that he couldn’t have held his scythe so long at such a delicate height. “It was a thing with...well, you remember MC?”

“I do.”

“She had an assignment for me. A special, secret assignment. No one could know about it. Very risky. Life or death. We weren’t sure how long it’d take, which is why I was gone so long. That’s why I couldn’t say anything to you, either. Specifically told me not to. ‘Don’t tell Glenn. I know you love him and all, but you can’t breathe a word of this to him.’ Her exact words.” _Let MC know what it feels like to be thrown under the bus_ , he thought, a surge of elation running through his veins. _See how_ she _likes it when she gets attacked for no reason_.

“None must know,” Glenn said in that same eerily quiet, toneless voice. “She hath said this to thee.”

“Exactly. Couldn’t tell anyone, but especially not you. It was imperative to the mission.” He’d heard Albel say that once in a story he was telling in the Hot Date house, and the phrase had always struck him as loaded with importance. It just _sounded_ official.

Glenn nodded in the moonlight, and the mattress creaked as he stood.

Magus sucked in a deep lungful of air, a sweat of relief popping out on his forehead. He eased himself upright and touched his fingers to his neck. The nick stung, but it wasn’t deep and the blood had already dried. He glanced down at his pillowcase and saw a few dark smudges; annoying, but not critical. Bed linen lost was a low price to pay under the circumstances. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, wriggling his toes on the sheepskin rug covering the stone floor.

His former lover stared out one of the stained glass windows at the moonlit countryside. He was as Magus remembered him from years earlier, now that he remembered him at all: broad-shouldered, shorter than average, with a glossy shock of hair standing off from his head like a patch of wind-tossed grass. He held his sword in one hand, the blade resting on the floor. He was bare except for a pair of loose, knee-length braies, and between his well-turned calves and strong, wide back, Magus felt something like desire stir within him.

Sure, Glenn had been annoying, but maybe more than six months apart had changed some of those behaviors. And if not, why couldn’t they start fixing them soon? There was nothing wrong with self-improvement. Magus was sure there were some things about himself that he could fix.

And even though he loved NekoNeechan, she was quite obviously out of reach. There were no portals in the year 600; if there had been, MC would probably have erased them when she dropped him off.

Since he was stuck, why not rekindle a little something-something?

What did he have to lose?


	34. Nihil Aliud Quam Vita

His steps were quiet on the stone. Even his breathing was loud in his ears. The moonlight stretched a path from the window to the edge of the bed, and he walked that path with the gentleness of an evening breeze, the soft sigh of a lover’s song. He approached Glenn and murmured, “Forgive me?”

The other man didn’t move.

Magus stepped around so he was at Glenn’s side. He reached down and took his calloused hand, cradling it with both his own. Ten years of little combat had smoothed his skin, but he hoped Glenn wouldn’t notice much. He hoped the slight roundness of his belly, the touch of gray at his temples, the faint sag of his formerly taut muscles would be equally ignored. He was there, standing bare as a newborn, beside his ex-lover in the moonlight of their once-shared bedroom. He hoped that such circumstances would be enough to capture Glenn’s attention.

Glenn kept his gaze firmly fixed on the hills beyond the window, but his grip on the Masamune loosened.

Magus pulled Glenn’s hand up and placed it over his heart. It beat wildly in his chest, and even now, even after so many years, familiar butterflies had taken up residence in his stomach. There was a twinge somewhat lower, too; something else familiar remembering certain other feelings. Glenn’s hand was warm, hot, even. Rough, too. But alive. So very much alive.

Oh, yes. Magus was  _ definitely  _ remembering.

He reached up and caressed Glenn’s cheek. The other men hesitated, but to Magus’ surprise, after a moment he pressed it against Magus’ hand. Tenderly he drew Glenn’s face around to look in his eyes. They were dark in the moonlight, but all the shields seemed to have fallen away. They were dreamy, half-lidded, and Glenn tilted his face upwards.

Magus bent slightly, twining the fingers into Glenn’s silky hair with one hand and clutching Glenn’s free hand with the other. Their lips met with the inevitability of magnets, drawn together as if by some unseen power neither had recognized until they were already together. Glenn’s breath was warm and wet and minty; Magus hoped his wasn’t too awful from sleep. He let go of Glenn’s hand on his chest and dropped his hand to the other man’s waist, drawing him closer. A finger snaked below the drawstring waistband of the braies, the only foreign thing separating them from one another. Magus slid his finger around, parting his lips in the kiss.

Neither man flinched as the Masamune clattered to the floor.

Glenn snaked his arms around Magus’ waist, clutching at his back, his hair, the crown of his head to draw it downwards. One foot found its way between Magus’, and Glenn pressed his hips against Magus’ abdomen with a desperate sort of desire. His hands squeezed tight; Magus gasped in the kiss, anticipating the bruises he’d find in the morning. He deserved them. He’d left. He’d lied. He’d been gone so long, and here he was, returning like nothing had changed.

Oh, god, was he glad nothing had changed.

Glenn’s lips and tongue moved against Magus’ mouth as if in silent prayer. Magus followed along as best he could under the circumstances; it felt like an eternity since he’d done anything like this, and it wasn’t exactly like flying the _Epoch_. Still, given the way Glenn seemed to be reacting, maybe he wasn’t doing such a terrible job after all.

He pressed himself closer, slinking another finger between waist and band.

Glenn’s lips moved from Magus’ mouth in a lingering arc along his jaw. Magus tilted his head to the side to expose more skin for Glenn’s benefit. He slid his hands to the drawstring of the braies, tugging on the loose ends to untie them, to—

“Water,” Glenn whispered in Magus’ ear.

Magus didn’t even have a chance to see the bubbles that burst against him, throwing him backwards. The force of the blast pressed him tight against the window; the rough lead between each pane dug painfully into his skin. The entire frame creaked frighteningly, and Magus’ hands scrabbled for finger holds on the stone surround. His body dripped from the dousing, and he coughed up lungfuls of liquid.

“Water!” Glenn screamed again. Just before a second deluge hit him Magus saw the Masamune back in his hand. The window shrieked as the water slammed against it, and he tucked his chin as he felt it give way behind him. Something stung from shoulder to hip as the world gave way and the wind whistled around his sodden form.

He thought he saw a flash of light above him. But then the ground was there, hard and wet and covered with glass, and the entire world went black.


	35. Aqua Vitae

The inrush of air that filled Magus’ lungs would have made him scream if that hadn’t meant letting all that air go. His ribs felt like they were stabbing into his organs. His head throbbed with the jabbing of a thousand miners’ picks. He ached in places he wasn’t even aware existed. Even his hair seemed to hurt.

So he decided to pass out again.

The second time he woke up, the pain seemed to have dulled considerably, though his skull felt like it was stuffed full of cotton balls. He couldn’t breathe deeply; through the fog he realized his entire chest was wrapped tightly with bandages. One of his arms seemed to be, too, and his leg felt abnormally straight.

Memories drifted back like nightmares: sword at his throat, making out with his ex, his ex casting a spell that tossed him out his bedroom window. Pain. Agonizing, brutalizing, excruciating pain.

He groaned.

“Took you long enough,” a voice said gruffly.

“Oh, he’s finally awake?” another, deeper voice replied. “I thought he’d died again, and I’m running low on phoenix downs.”

“You might still need ‘em. No one’s managed to convince me yet that killing him isn’t a viable option.”

“You do, and you’ll be needing a phoenix down, too. Don’t think I can’t take you. I might be missing an eye, but I’m not useless yet.”

“Right. You’d have to catch me first.”

“Don’t need to catch you if I can get a spell off.”

“Yeah, big if. Remind me again, why’re you using items instead of magic right now?”

“Boys, for the bazillionth time, what have I told you about bickering in my laboratory?” a third voice, female this time, asked.

“For a scientist, I’d have expected you to pick a real number,” the gruff voice said.

“Albel, don’t you dare fuck with me. I’ve still got your arm. I don’t have to give it back.”

Albel grumbled something under his breath that Magus didn’t catch because _Holy shit, what the hell is Albel doing here?_

“As for you, Seph, thanks for all the phoenix downs. I think we can switch to potions now that he’s conscious.”

“Okay, Lucca.” Through bleary eyes, Magus saw a man with short, spiky silver hair lean over him. A leather patch covered one eye, a pale scar extending through one brow and over his cheekbone. His lean face was tanned dark, making his remaining green eye almost glow with an inner iridescence. He slid one arm under Magus neck to gently lift it, then pressed the opening of a flask to Magus’ mouth. “Drink.”

The liquid slid down Magus’ throat in a thick, syrupy rope. It felt a little lumpy and tasted like cherry cough medicine mixed with laundry detergent. His stomach rebelled violently against the taste and texture.

Sephiroth seemed to recognize this, and he pulled the flask away. A long string of the potion lay a trail from the lip of the flask to his chin. The grizzled man clamped Magus’ jaw shut, shushing him. “It’s gross. I know. Trust me. But it works if you can keep it down. Just give it a sec to start working.”

Magus hated to admit it, but he was right. Once the last of the vile fluid made it to his stomach, a heady warmth seemed to spread throughout his veins. The fog in his brain seemed to clear, and his chest didn’t hurt quite so much when he breathed. His arm and leg itched under their bandages as his bones started to knit themselves back together. The nausea receded, and a tight smile found its way to his face. “Thanks.”

“Like I said, it sucks, but it works.”

“That’s what I heard Cloud say about you,” the gruffer voice snarked from the corner.

Magus, still held up by Sephiroth, stiffly turned his head in Albel’s direction. He was match-stick thin, his metal arm missing. Gone were the two long, mocha-tipped-in-cream tails that he’d worn since Magus had known him. Instead, his hair was shoulder-length all the way around. Scruff coated his jaw and ringed his mouth; on a normal man it might’ve been a few days’ growth, but Magus knew it must have been at least two years since Albel had shaved for the stubble to even be visible.

Gingerly, Magus pushed himself the rest of the way up with his good arm. He looked back and forth between the two men, noticing they were dressed in similar outfits of black leather and sturdy boots. Black masks hung from hooks on the wall, and a variety of firearms and weaponry seemed to have replaced much of the machinery around the room. He was lying on a thin, foam mattress on a table, a rolled up set of clothes his pillow. A single incandescent bulb lit the entire room, which seemed to have no windows at all.

In a voice gravelly from disuse, he asked, “What the hell is this place?”


	36. Veni Vidi Perdidi

When MC read Sephiroth’s name, it felt like all of the oxygen was sucked out of the room. The hot lights seemed to swirl, and his knees suddenly felt weak. Everything he’d worked for—everything he’d given up—everything he’d been wanting for so long—

Gone when she read his name.

He didn’t remember the others comforting him, patting his shoulder or giving him a hug. He barely remembered the interview with Gogo, and answered with trite platitudes everything he was asked. He vaguely remembered performing the final surprise song for NekoNeechan, and he was glad when everyone was able to pick up the slack for him. He wasn’t really in the mood to play.

No, his memories of the night didn’t really pick up until he was in his dressing room after that performance. Locke had instructed the other three to go line up for the next elimination. He hadn’t been included. Instead, he sat, shoulders drooping as he slowly wiped away his stage makeup. First one tear, then another, and another and another until a whole, unstoppable flood dripped ceaselessly on the dressing table and the threadbare carpet. At first he tried to bite back his sobs, but they, too, had finally broken past his barriers. He wept like a child.

It’s not that he’d been planning on winning. He’d hoped to win, sure, but he’d never really _planned_ on it. And the thing was, he knew NekoNeechan loved him.

Well, he believed she loved him.

He _thought_ she loved him.

He loved her.

And it wasn’t like they’d never been on dates or anything in the past. He’d been with her during the first Cast Party, and at the third he’d been invited at her request so she’d have someone special to sit with. He’d been to all the holiday parties with her. They’d always had a good time.

So when he was kicked out of the competition, it hurt. But it wasn’t just losing; he’d hoped to win, but he’d never really expected it.

It was that he’d lost _first_.

He was certain he’d done better than that. Positive.

He hadn’t done well the first two months, true. He’d gotten a monthly prize in September. But that prize—

No. Not thinking about that.

But he’d been doing better! He’d blown away the competition with his picture book! His play had been funny! His song, while not as touching, maybe, as Albel’s, was still lovely and true to himself! He’d even done fairly well in the various games. He’d thought he’d been earning more points.

And he was called first.

MC had set up portals throughout the studio so everyone could come and go as needed. She’d grabbed helpers from all four worlds represented in the contest. Gaia, his own, provided much of the technology in and around the competition. Toran and Dunan sent food and labor. Albel’s world, Elicoor, had provided clothes and served as some of the settings for various activities. MC, with the help of Lucca’s Time Key, had gathered whatever else was needed from the Entity, the world from which Magus came. None had provided anything more or less important than the others. It was all specially in balance for the show. She’d been quite clear about that when she’d introduced them all to each other and the concept of the competition itself in the weeks leading up to the party.

As for the rest, well, she had Locke, of course, stage managing and acting as assistant director, and Gogo and Flea were helping run stuff, too. There were a whole host of other people running back and forth, though, too: a few Cids were helping with the technical side of things; Antonio and Rigel were taking care of craft services; Reeve, Ryoga, Bart, and Tamahome were handlers for him and the other stars…

Though, the second he’d lost, Bart had taken off to go watch the rest of the competition.

He’d scrubbed the last of the thick stage makeup from his face until his skin felt red and raw.

He’d packed his bag with the last few things he’d brought to the Hot Date House.

He’d slipped out the door with none the wiser.

And he’d headed for the first portal he could find.

Destination be damned.


	37. Quod Sic, Et Mortuus Es

Albel wasn’t too thrilled about losing, but he decided it wasn’t worth looking back. His main competition the entire time had been Sephiroth, aside for the first month, when it’d been Magus. NekoNeechan’s feelings for him, he knew, were cemented, true and never-changing. She might go out on a date with someone else, but it didn’t mean she loved him any less.

Not that he loved her.

Okay, that wasn’t entirely true, even in the wee hours of the morning and he was being purely honest with himself. He was  _ fond _ of her, certainly. He felt affection for her innocence and kindness. He was happy to be part of her life. He liked the way felt about himself when he was around her. She always seemed to bring out his best effort, regardless of whether or not he’s actually capable of following through. The hours he’d spent preparing to impress her…

None had been wasted.

And yet, the thought of actually  _ dating _ her, of all those expectations that were placed on real couples…

Well, he wasn’t especially devastated he’d lost.

He’d never been in a relationship. It wasn’t that they scared him. It was more that...they didn’t really have a point. From everything he’d ever seen, they were stressful and boring and people who “were in love with each other” usually ended up hurt one way or another. He didn’t need that kind of thing in his life. He’d leap at the chance to rescue NekoNeechan if she needed it, or to protect her, but more because the world was better with her in it than anything else. Wanting to kiss her or—ugh—have physically intimate contact with her just wasn’t something he was jonesing for. Take her out to a field and teach her some sword techniques? Sure. Get MC to send them to Airyglyph to ride a dragon? Hell yes. Kiss her? Eh, let someone else take care of that.

Gremio, for example. Grem liked her. He got all blushy and stammer-y when she was around. He wasn’t quite like that with the rest of them; in fact, he was surprisingly level-headed and practical. His axe skills weren’t anything to dismiss, either. Albel had made a point of sparring each of his fellow competitors at least once in their downtime in the Hot Date House, and he’d been more impressed by Grem than any of the others. Aside from the fact that he was nice and an awesome cook, he was also determined. His tenacity in the ring hadn’t let him win against Albel’s speed or anything like that, but he’d put up a good fight. He’d gotten up a few times when Albel was pretty much convinced he was down for the count.

So not, perhaps, the  _ best _ fighter, but good enough. Since Grem won, Albel figured it’d all be fine. Grem would protect her. She’d be happy.

So when MC came to him about Magus kidnapping NekoNeechan, he’d been pissed. Magus was a bum. He wasn’t anything even remotely resembling a threat, and he’d managed to get past Grem and take NekoNeechan and they’d disappeared. 

Livid. Absolutely livid.

For two weeks he’d scoured every world NekoNeechan could be. MC sent him and Seph and Grem to a whole host of other worlds and towns. He’d been the one to discover a trail leading to Costa del Sol, though even that was a fluke. The innkeeper in Radat had heard mention of a beach, and after that, it was easy. There were only a few tourist beaches in all the worlds that they could be. They’d shown up, he’d gotten to smack Magus around a bit (though not nearly enough for his transgression, he felt), and Grem had taken NekoNeechan away. Problem solved, case closed, now what?

Now what, indeed? Albel wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to go back to his life before the competition, even if he hadn’t already known that old adage, “you can’t go back.” But at the same time, he wasn’t convinced that there was anything else he wanted to do. He was sick of teaching idiot kids how to hold a sword (hint: not by the pointy end). The drills he’d created for his teams back in the day had grown repetitive, but he wasn’t exactly inspired to come up with something new. He’d spent years keeping monsters clear of the roads between towns in Airyglyph, but there were always more, no matter how many heads or torsos or tentacles he severed. There was just no point.

He wanted to do something big. Something lasting. With meaning. Purpose. Something that no one would expect, but that he’d be good at. Something that’d make people sit up and realize that there was more to him than hack-’n-slash speed and foul language and sullen silences. Something meaningful.

And sitting in his cold, stone room on a cold winter night surrounded by his meager possessions, it came to him. He nearly had to laugh. It was so simple, it was perfect. No one would ever imagine he could do it, but it’d blow them away when he did.

Albel was going to be a bard.


	38. Sola Vagari

How long he traveled, Sephiroth couldn’t have said. He had some money on him, which was good. Gil was at least partially gold. It was at least gold enough that everyone he gave it to  _ assumed _ it was gold, even if it didn’t look the same as whatever the local currency was. 

He had his sword with him, and he fought off monsters for room and board in a couple different towns. He’d stay until he couldn’t stand it anymore, then move on. He carried messages between towns, sometimes riding whatever local fauna passed for beasts of burden: horses, mules, chocobos, even a dragon once or twice. More often than not, though, he’d go on foot if the message wasn’t urgent. It was rare he’d have to cross anything more strenuous than a stretch of a few dozen miles. Once in awhile a mountain range might stand in his way, and a few times he had to take a boat. 

There was one long stretch where he ferried refugees downriver from one war-torn country to a slightly more peaceful one. He didn’t have any specific care one way or another for the actual conflict. Armies were armies, and war was the same in every universe. He’d spent his time in SOLDIER working for Shinra. He didn’t need any extra time fighting other men’s battles.

He could, however, rescue those who, unlike him, had no choice. He commandeered a small wooden boat and, in the dead of night, made his way up and down the coast. Families boarded for free, old men and mothers with suckling babes at their breasts, girls too young for the haunted expressions in their eyes, boys hoping to escape the conflict before they, too, were caught up in its tide. Soldiers had to discard their weapons before he’d take them, just in case they were seeking different sport. 

One night, a few months after he’d begun his mission, nobody came to his boat. He’d waited a few more nights before making his way inland. He passed the scorched remains of houses, burnt-out forests, fields of crops trampled and salted by genocidal maniacs. The countryside was dead and haunted. 

He stepped through another portal that night, too heartsick and weary to continue.

He led a camel train through the desert from Figaro to Kohlingen, protecting cargo and travelers from the violent beasts that inhabited the scorching sands. In the middle of a sandstorm he made shadow puppets to entertain one of the little girls traveling with her family to the farm they’d purchased. He told stories and sand songs while wind wailed around their tent, pelting the thick canvas with grains of sand that stung exposed skin and made them all cough brown mud for days after. He told them to keep the coin they’d promised him in payment and use it for her education.

He stepped through another portal that night, still feeling lost and alone, despite his “good deed” and “generous heart.”

He trained wild chocobos on a farm south of Icicle Inn using the skills he’d gained in SOLDIER; he’d been considered for a time as a possible cavalryman before they phased out non-mechanical transport. He roped and rode and curried and bred with the best of them, much to the delight of some of the local children. One little boy, bright-eyed and blonde, had a knack for knowing exactly what a particular bird might need at any given time. He took the child under his wing, so to speak, and began showing him the techniques he’d learned. The boy’s mother caught wind of the lessons and arrived just in time to startle a particularly timid chocobo. It threw the boy. Although the snow dampened his fall, his mother insisted that the lessons stop.

He stepped through another portal that night, wondering if he’d ever figure out a way for things to possibly go right in his life.

And he took lovers sometimes. The innkeeper’s daughter would have eyes that vanished into her lashes when she smiled and hair the color of toasted pecans and an obliging personality. All he had to do was glance her way, and for a few nights or weeks she’d lie, warm and satisfied, in his arms at night.

Or there was a rough-and-tumble, would-be soldier who’d stayed behind to protect the homestead from bandits or wolves or whatever beastie lurked in the darkness. He’d see something in the lively optimism of the man, and they’d find themselves on patrol together, paying less attention to their surroundings than to the movements of their lips and hips up against a barn wall or a bale of hay.

And there were always the ones who saw his broken edges and believed they could patch them. They offered food, clothes, words, embraces—everything they had, really—under the impression that they were the balm that could heal his soul. He’d stay however long he could stand it. A few months, once. A week or two, sometimes. Often, a single night. He’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling or the sky, scarcely registering the body nestled against his own. He’d try to remember how he’d gotten there. The name of the one next to him. Then he’d slip out from the covers—if there were covers—put on clothes—if he’d taken them off to begin with—and leave with whatever baggage he’d brought with him.

If he ever left anything behind, he didn’t know about it.

He didn’t really want to know, either.

And then there was Kefka.


	39. Barba Non Facit Vate

In retrospect, Albel decided later, it wasn’t really so much of a stretch to become a bard. He’d always done well on the more artistic contest parts. The singing and writing ones, at least. Maybe not the actual art ones. But he’d still done well, and he’d enjoyed the creativity involved. 

So he packed himself a notebook, some waterproof pens, a guitar, and a backpack of clothes and supplies. He had a tidy little purse from his days working for the army, so money wasn’t going to be much of an issue, he suspected. The idea of playing for room and board sent a little thrill down his spine, but knowing he could spare the coin for it if he needed to suited his practical side.

He didn’t have much of a plan beyond that. He knew himself well enough to understand that, if he was going to do this, he had one chance and one chance only. The moment he began considering the future if this whim fell through was the moment he’d convince himself not to do it. He was young. He was twenty-six. He had years to be boring and old. Right now, he needed to be spontaneous. He hadn’t been spontaneous on the show, and that was why he’d lost. 

Not that he would’ve been willing to do whatever it took to win if it meant lying to NekoNeechan—or himself.

But this, this whole bard thing, this was strictly for his own benefit.

He walked off into the Airyglyph night to the portal between worlds.

It was a roulette which he stepped through. He didn’t know he’d picked Sephiroth’s Gaia until he hit one of the small towns on the northern half of the eastern continent. He wasn’t even sure if it had a name when he began passing farmhouses and fields. Everything was green and warm and fresh-scented. He shed the scarf and cloak he’d been wearing and stuffed them in his bag.

Another hour’s walk brought him to a tavern. The styling of it was surprisingly familiar: white plaster, dark wood beams, thatched roof. The interior was all exposed wood and stone fireplace and long, rustic counter. Again, it wasn’t exactly strange to him, but maybe that was for the best. He ordered an ale, staked out a table, and began tuning his guitar.

Ninety minutes later he was still sitting silently.

He knew how to play the guitar. That was never in doubt. He even knew some songs. His soldiers had been fond of ballads, regardless of topic. Romance, violence, victory, death—anything went with them, so he’d made a point of learning just enough to set him aside from all the other trainers. Loyalty could be bought with booze and camaraderie, he’d learned early. It just took more effort than he typically felt like putting in.

He strummed the guitar and began to play.

It was a simple song, a tale of a long-ago battle between a group of soldiers and a raiding band of monsters. The hero was the the young boy who was fighting for the first time. He slew a few monsters on his own, including one particularly loathsome beast that was reaching out for his commander. 

 

_ And the horizon glistened like fresh-spilt blood _

_ As the dire wolf slid from blade to snow _

_ Emotion welled up in the boy like a flood _

_ For sure as he’d killed he’d come to know: _

_ To fight to protect is well and good _

_ But to fight to glory is the way to go _

 

Albel wasn’t exactly expecting an audience surrounding him when he looked up from the floor, but he was still surprised to see that only one person out of the dozen or so in the tavern seemed to even have been listening.

Albel scowled at this. He was a bit rusty, perhaps, but still, the song was an old favorite among the troops.

The man who’d been listening drifted over with his tankard. “Nice sentiment,” he said in a voice thick with age, “but not quite a peaceful tune.”

“Life isn’t peaceful,” Albel muttered. He began picking through his mental catalogue to pick something else that might work.

“Oh, no, of course it isn’t. That’s why we listen to pleasant songs. Memories of days long gone. Our heroes aren’t soldiers who slew monsters. Here, may I?” He held out his hands for the guitar.

Still scowling, Albel offered the instrument to the man.


	40. I Oderunt Vos Tantum

Sephiroth ran into Lucca having portaled to Truce a few weeks earlier. She put him up for the night on a couch in her lab. Her lack of overtures was refreshing, and had he actually felt like doing anything, he would have considered staying indefinitely. 

The next morning, though, she woke him up with her foot. “Time to get moving,” she said in that same cool tone she always used.

He grumped but got up. It wasn’t like he’d done anything to earn a place to stay. The fact she was kind enough to spare a couch for a night was more than he deserved. He pulled his black t-shirt on and threw his leather jacket on top. “Thanks for letting me crash,” he said with an eye towards the door.

“Who said you’re leaving?” she asked. “At least, you’re not possibly going to walk out right this second. We’ve got things to do.”

This startled him; she hadn’t seemed interested the night before. When she reached down the front of her blouse, he began to wonder if he shouldn’t have left off his clothes to save time.

So he was surprised when she pulled out a brass key on a long chain. “You don’t know what this is,” she said as she fondled the body-warmed metal fondly, “but this is my greatest invention. It’s the Time Key, and it allows me to travel to any time I wish.”

“Oh. Cool, I guess,” he mumbled, glad he’d remained fully-clothed.

She eyed him over the rims of her thick glasses. “In any universe I wish, if I use one of MC’s portals.”

He shrugged, wondering what the woman was getting at.

She sighed. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

They’d walked out through the forest near Guardia Castle, Lucca leading the way boldly past trios of monsters resting in the early dawn. In a grove of sycamore and oak she’d nodded towards the portal to the World of Ruin, the place where Locke lived. Glancing towards the familiar glowing platform, he hadn’t seen the appeal.

Lucca, however, didn’t care what he saw or didn’t. She essentially dragged him up into the circle. Light flashed around them, and when it receded, they stood in the dust-skyed, mud-watered universe of VI.

She waited for him to stop coughing, a faint smile on her lips. “It used to be worse than this. Want me to show you?” The key dangled over one finger.

“No, thanks,” he managed, spitting a glob of mucus on the ground. “Let’s just do whatever it is you’ve got planned and get on with it.”

“As you wish.” She held the key aloft, and a new portal opened. Unlike the portals connecting the different worlds, this one was midnight-dark except for strange streaks of light thrashing through it like snakes. Sephiroth took a startled step back. “You want me to go through there?”

“Yup!” Without a pause she placed her free hand on his back and shoved him through.

His stomach was up by his ears, which had somehow dropped below his knees. His hair whipped around his face like a lash, and his bones felt like they’d been turned into clay to be molded by some unseen, unholy hands. He screamed, but no sound came out; instead, butterflies flashed across his vision. It was the worst kind of hell, and it went on for an eternity.

A moment later, he tumbled onto a field of grass greener than any he’d ever seen before. The air was pure and fresh and clear, and a stream bubbling near his face was cooler and more pure than anything he’d ever seen come from a faucet. Wispy clouds lazed across a perfectly blue sky, and the breeze held the first bite of autumn. In the distance, a few deer-like creatures leapt in play.

Slowly, as to test the effects of the portal on his body, he pushed himself up. “What is this place?” he asked in awe.

“The same place we just were, only about twenty years earlier.”

He nearly gave himself whiplash turning to face her. “What?”

“This place was destroyed when the statues holding everything in balance were thrown out of whack. That won’t happen for a while yet, but yeah, geographically, this is essentially the same spot we just were.” 

“And that thing...that key...brought us here?”

“Yup.” She tucked it back into her blouse and arranged her scarf to cover it. “I’ve got some things I need to get from a city nearby. Let’s go.”


	41. Notitia Collectio

And thus passed the years. The man had returned Albel’s guitar, and Albel wrote down the song for future reference. He stayed a few days, speaking to those he encountered, then moved on. Town after town, sometimes cities, sometimes farmhouses where he bunked down for the night, in every place he traveled he found another tune, another story, another record of a life lived—or not. 

His notebook filled to overflowing. An avalanche of paper scraps tumbled out each time he undid the bands that kept it shut. He bought another, and another, and another. When they began to weigh heavy in his satchel, he made a detour to Gaia for some high-tech gadgetry that would help. He spent a week with a patient young man digitizing his collection in exchange for a modest fee and a few love songs.

His guitar fell out of tune; he sang a capella or recited what he’d memorized and got new strings when he could. It broke, once, when it fell from the loft of the tiny guest house in the community where he was staying. He took a portal to a different world with the intent to return after he’d purchased a new one.

It was still on his to-do list six months later. Harmonia was just too interesting to leave.

He met old men and women, their backs bent under the years of their lives, who smiled when he asked for their time and a tale. They offered ten apiece, mending his clothes and offering him tea and cake.

He met families on the move, searching for better lives and bringing with them the tales of their ancestors. They reveled in the highlights of the past: the soldiers who’d come home with spoils; the saucy, rosy-cheeked maids who had rebuffed any advances until they decided they were ready for a quieter life; townsfolk and farmers coming together to recover following disasters or disease. Their own stories were too fresh, too raw, for them to find any joy in. Only a few ever revealed their true circumstances to the wandering minstrel who’d once been called “Wicked.”

The children, though. He’d never been fond of children. Too messy, too noisy, too sticky and wild. But their stories intrigued him more than any others. Fairy tales, folklore, fantasies. Trees that lifted their roots and walked with woody gaits to distribute fruit at harvest time. Clouds whose shapes predicted the future. Frightening beasts who inhabited stone-lined wells or sooty rafters or the hollow spaces behind rock falls. These stories, shared with abandon in high-pitched voices, were his favorites. 

He gave stories in return. On Gaia to a farmer he told of the spring planting rituals in the remote hills of the Entity. He shared romantic tales from Matilda with ladies-in-waiting in Figaro. He described the slaying of behemoths to the town guard in Peterny. Everywhere he went, he shared what he’d heard and learned.

Sometimes, when he slept in the fields staring up at strange stars, he would think to himself how he’d changed. He was more free than he’d ever been as a soldier. He only killed when attacked, and then typically only monsters. He was as lean and strong as ever, but there was something in him that had softened. He’d been good at murder, yes, but he was better at this.

He was happy.

It was a strange admission for someone who’d once prided himself on being a misanthrope.

People were still dumb, yes. He loved laughing at stories of bumbling fools and their mishaps. Everyone seemed to have at least one tale like that they couldn’t wait to tell—and always about someone else’s errors, of course. 

Despite this, he found the stories of little victories, of people who’d succeeded in carving out lives for themselves in the wilderness, of people who’d pulled through or helped others or who weren’t soldiers but fended off wild animals—he found these to be just as important. A father risking his life in a snowstorm to get back to his family for the end of the year. A woman giving birth to her first child after the death of her husband. A man and his lover fighting in a tower, one plunging to his death, the other haunting the tower with wails of regret, even centuries later. A girl standing tall and defiant, demanding justice when someone misused her. A child nursing a bird back to health and watching it fly away, only to see it return a season later with its mate. 

Any story.

Every story.

With pen and paper or electronic device or repeated ad nauseam so he could repeat it back perfectly—

This was the life he’d chosen.

He couldn’t imagine choosing any other.


	42. Memores Acti Prudentes Futuri

The city, though unfamiliar, reminded him vaguely of Midgar on his own world. The skies were wavy and damp with steam, and the buildings and pipes seemed to have been constructed with a combination of brick and steel. Workers in gray jumpsuits moved supplies from place to place and adjusted fittings on pipes and constructed new buildings. Soldiers in black uniforms patrolled the streets. Citizens scurried along, shopping baskets or small children on their arms. Everyone, even the soldiers, had the same surprised, almost startled expressions in their eyes. 

Like something had happened here recently to upend their entire worldview.

He could relate. He’d just traveled back in time.

Lucca led the way with the confidence of someone who’d done this a dozen times and counting. She navigated the streets with the acumen of a native, dodging crumbling cobblestones and chunks of concrete, ducking through narrow alleys between older wooden buildings, and knowing just when it was safe to dash across the street in front of or behind a hurrying worker. Sephiroth didn’t have too much difficulty keeping up, due to his years of honing his body. He was twenty-eight, in the prime of his adult life. But still, her sudden movements had a fluidity he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to master.

Before too long, though, she’d brought him in front of a plain-looking shop. It didn’t even have any front windows; the sign above the door advertised simply, “Tools.” She opened the door and motioned for him to follow, but pressed her finger to her lips.

Look, but don’t speak. Easy enough. He was good at following orders.

The interior of the shop seemed almost as unassuming as the outside. A few tables lined the walls, but they just had a few hammers and bins of nails on them. On the wall behind the shopkeeper was an assortment of drill bits and what looked like samples of steel. Gas lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating everything with a soft, golden glow. This, at least, was different from what he was used to.

Lucca leaned across the counter to discuss something or other with the shopkeep. Sephiroth

 

bent over to examine the tools on one of the tables, his hands visible behind his back.  _ So this is the past, huh? Kinda boring here, too _ .

He thought too soon.

The door burst open, and a young man strolled in, grinning. His strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a short tail at the top of his head; the sides were buzzed down to his pale skin. An aquiline nose extended below a pair of eyes that glittered like chips of ice in the shadow of his brow. He had high, almost feminine cheekbones, and his jaw, too, was softly rounded despite his otherwise sharp features. In fact, just staring at him, Sephiroth wasn’t sure if he’d be able to identify this person as male were it not for the close-cut black uniform he wore. 

“Bekkler! What do you have for His Glorious-ness today?” he called in a voice that seemed just on the cusp of changing. “C’mon, give us the goods. We have a mighty need!”

Lucca stepped to the side as the young man sauntered up. He hopped lightly onto the wooden countertop and smiled charmingly at the shopkeeper. Sephiroth could only watch, stunned, at his audacity.

“Nothing today, Palazzo. Latest shipment hasn’t come in. Need some more time before I can get you what you need.”

Palazzo. The name was familiar, but Sephiroth couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it.

“Aww, you don’t really mean that, do you, Bekkler? Think about how sad our dear, old Emperor will be if he doesn’t get the latest batch of supplies in. He’ll be crushed!” The young man leaned in close to the shopkeep’s face. “We would just hate that, wouldn’t we?”

Bekkler, for his part, seemed unfazed by these antics. “We’ll get ‘em when we get them. They’re coming from South Figaro by way of Albrook. You know there’s tariffs and duties and fees that need to be levied against them first. This stuff isn’t cheap, even for the Emperor.”

Palazzo thrust his lower lip out in a cherry-red pout. “One day we won’t need to worry about all that. We’ll have Albrook all to ourselves, and Figaro, too. Then we can get whatever we need as fast as the boats can bring it in.”

“And until then, you’ll just need to wait. Sorry, Palazzo. Them’s the breaks. Now, Miss, is there anything else I can help you with?”

The disappointed young man slid off the counter, head drooping. “I hate going back to Gestahl with bad news. He always takes it personally, even if it’s not my fault.” He kicked the floor with the pointed toe of one patent-leather boot.

Before he could stop himself, Sephiroth said, “I’ll do it. I’ll go get the supplies.”

The young man lifted his head, a brilliant smile on his face. Over at the counter, Lucca smacked her forehead. Glancing between the two, Sephiroth wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right decision.


	43. Fabulam Princeps et Virginem

He was thirty-one when he first heard the story.

A golden-haired prince with wild eyes and scars fell in love a lovely, lowly maiden from another village. He saw her as he rode his white horse through the countryside. He stopped and made overtures, which she, being an innocent and kindly thing, rebuffed as gently as she was able. Her cheeks were flushed the red of dewy blooms, and her tulip petal lips tugged downwards with regret as the words fell from between them. The prince stirred his horse and rode into the distance.

Now, in the village of the maiden was a wretched man who, since birth, had been disfigured of face. His skin was painted an unnatural hue due to the food his mother had eaten while he was in the womb. Still, this man was a fixture in the village, always helpful and polite. He was a man of many talents, and he used these to better the lives of those around him.

Naturally, the maid and man had an understanding with one another. She gave him her kind heart, and he vowed to protect her from those who would do her harm.

The prince, however, had no knowledge of this; in fact, even if he had, he likely would have disregarded the fact. He paced his castle daily, raving to his servants at the unfairness of a universe which would deny him the single thing he wished most. He brushed aside courtiers who could have borne him children to carry on his name or who would have lived until their last breath working to please him in every way possible. He denied himself rest and food, stating to all who would listen that he would not do so until the fair maiden was his and his alone.

Unable to take it any longer, the mad prince ordered his carriage readied. If he could not have her by request, then he would take her by force.

One page, a youth with dreams of knighthood, snuck away on his master’s charger. He rode through the night until the animal was foaming at the mouth and slick with sweat. He dismounted at the door of the maiden’s farmhouse and slammed his fist against it.

When she answered, he told her she should come. The prince was on his way, and he, the page, would be the one to have fetched him his princess.

Another figure arrived at the door. His skin was discolored, though now with rage. He hefted his weapon from beside the door, shouting that his betrothed would set no foot beyond the sill that night, or any other night, while he still drew breath.

The wheels rumbled over the rutted road as the prince’s carriage arrived at the farmhouse. The prince burst forth in golden blaze, his armor shining, his weapon gleaming. He demanded the disfigured man step aside so that he might claim the maiden. His most trusted retainers dismounted behind him, each with swords drawn. 

Under the light of the full moon, the man faced down the prince and his retinue. They came at him all at once, and he swung his mighty sword with all the force of a vengeful god. One, then another, then the last of the retinue fell to his determined blows.

And so it came that the greedy prince and the determined man faced off against one another. The man bled from a dozen different minor wounds, most no more than scratches, and his blade, too, dripped crimson blood onto the yard. The prince was unharmed, having stayed in the back of the skirmish until it became apparent that he would need to step in if he wished to gain his prize. His eyes glittered with barely-checked rage and deceit; the prince knew he would need all his wits and wiles to win.

The prince saw the page, and he beckoned him close. When the boy dashed over, the prince scooped him up in one arm and held his sword to his throat. He demanded the disfigured man step down and the maiden to become his wife, else the page would be slaughtered before his eyes. The page, not yet having seen ten years, wailed as sharp steel pressed against his neck.

The man was appalled and looked quickly to find an opening, but the maiden was quicker. She stepped from the sill of the doorway, her cheeks rosy with fear, her eyes wide with distress, and offered herself to the prince in exchange for the page’s life. The disfigured man stared at her, horrified. 

A horrible, victorious smile grew over the prince’s cat-like lips. He threw the page away, his blade a silver streak suddenly scarlet with blood. He drove the sword to its hilt in the disfigured man’s chest. Before the maiden could even register the scene before her, the prince grabbed her wrist and whisked her into the carriage to his castle.

“They say,” whispered the man recounting the tale, “that she still lives in his many-windowed palace, locked away as his lover against her will.”

Albel nodded, writing down this last bit of information. He thanked the man for his time and shouldered his bag.

It suddenly occurred to him that it had been quite some time since he’d last seen NekoNeechan.


	44. Non Bene Factum

Lucca refused to come. “Not my circus, not my monkey.”

“What?” 

“I told you that all you needed to do was keep your mouth shut and stay put. That includes not volunteering to help out anyone in this empire. They don’t need your help. They’re completely capable of making the things I need and being evil on their own.”

Sephiroth blanched. “They’re evil?”

“Think for a second, Seph. Have you ever encountered an empire that  _ wasn’t _ evil.”

“...No.”

She shook her head. “I should drag you back home myself, but that’d mean I couldn’t ever come back to this store, and that’s not exactly an option.”

“Why not?”

“That guy’s seen me with you already.” She gritted her teeth.

“Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, come earlier?” Sephiroth watched her pacing, his own anxiety rising.

“I’ve been here every day since that shop opened. I’ve been negotiating with Bekkler very carefully so as to not raise suspicion.” She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest. “And the one and only time I bring you, the time when I’m  _ this close _ to getting exactly what I need from this guy, you jump in out of nowhere and offer to be some...some...delivery boy!”

“Ooo, that sounds like fun!” a voice said behind them. Sephiroth turned to see Palazzo leaning against a lamppost, arms folded and a delighted grin on his face. There was something so intrinsically young and innocent about the position that made the attractiveness of the young man seem...wrong.

“Go. Have fun. I’ll be waiting when you get back.” Lucca practically stomped off towards the inn.

“Feisty, isn’t she?” Palazzo grinned and linked his arm with Sephiroth’s. “Let’s go get those supplies so I don’t get in trouble, shall we?”

A guard near the gate held a trio of yellow-feathered chocobos at the ready. He saluted crisply when the pair walked up. “For you, Sergeant Palazzo, by order of Lieutenant Cristophe. He recommends you hurry back.” 

“Like we would take our time when we’re needed. Hmph.” He swung onto the chocobo’s back with a natural ease that set something stirring in Sephiroth’s stomach. 

He followed suit, acutely aware of Palazzo’s eyes on him. Determined to ignore them, he took hold of the reins and nudged the bird with his heels. It took off, warking excitedly.

The ride was pleasant, more so than Sephiroth would have expected. Palazzo chattered aimlessly, asking questions and listening intently to the answers. The ex-soldier found himself talking more than he would’ve expected, given how used to solitude he’d become. The young man just had a way of drawing him out and seeming genuinely interested in whatever Sephiroth had to say. He’d encountered people who’d tried that before, and even slept with them. But this somehow felt different. The charisma he exuded just drew him in.

The sun was setting as they reached Albrook, and Palazzo shook his head as they left their chocobos with the stable master at the edge of the town. “We can make a try at the docks for the supplies, but I don’t think there will be anyone around to talk to right now. They’re probably all at the tavern drinking.” 

He looked so forlorn that Sephiroth didn’t bother to hold back the first words that came to mind. “Why don’t we go check, then? Maybe you’ll recognize the guy you’re supposed to talk to.”

“Okay!” He linked arms again with Sephiroth and dashed off as the stars began to appear above them.

What happened later Sephiroth could only attribute to a bout of temporary insanity. 

The ale was cold and copiously flowing. The town, despite its southerly latitude, was warm. The bed in the inn was large and soft and stuffed with so many feathers that he practically disappeared when he lay down. His clothes were tight and he was used to sleeping half-naked. Palazzo told him that soldiers in his barracks didn’t even bother with clothes at all most nights. The blanket was too scratchy, so they kicked it away. Their noses touched when they rolled over simultaneously.

There had been a lot of ale.

Later, much later, when the sun crept over the horizon and they lay recovering from their exertions, Sephiroth murmured, “God, Palazzo. It hasn’t been like that in a long time.”

The younger man’s hand caressed Sephiroth’s cheek, his lips peppering his shoulder with nibbly kisses. “I didn’t even realize it could  _ be _ like that.”

Sephiroth chuckled.

“But one thing,” he added, kissing a trail up Sephiroth’s neck.

“Mmh?”

“Call me ‘Kefka.’”


	45. Ubi Est Ea

The man gave Albel a strange look at his question. “That’s what you got from the story? Where is some other chick? Dude, if you don’t want to listen to my story, why bother askin’?”

“Oh, no, I listened,” Albel said. He held up his notebook to prove it. “However, I have heard similar stories recently, so I was wondering if this was a local legend or if you heard it from elsewhere. Your childhood, perhaps?”

The man shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Nah, I heard it a few weeks ago from some guy. Came through town, bought a round of drinks at the bar, told a few tales, then left.” He eyed the counter suggestively. 

Albel ignored him. “What did this gentleman look like? Was he dressed like me, or did he wear the costume of somewhere familiar to you?”

“No idea. Kinda nondescript. Sounded like he was from up Midgar way, though. I dunno, dude. I think he’s prob’ly just some guy tellin’ stories and bein’ generous.” He coughed. “Speakin’ of generous, a man gets mighty thirsty after tellin’ stories.”

“I know.” Albel flipped back through his notebook. He’d been near Midgar a few weeks earlier, but he hadn’t heard the tale then. This was more recent, according to his notes. Days, even. It was possible he’d just missed the man, or even spoken to him in passing. “Where might he have gone? In which direction did he head?”

“Out towards Costa del Sol, I reckon. ‘Bout the only way you can go from Junon. Say, dude, ya gonna buy me a drink or not?”

Albel stood and gathered his things. “Perhaps next time.” He placed a few gil on the table from the appropriate pouch on his belt. “But maybe that will tide you over until then.”

He booked passage that afternoon and set sail on the evening tide. The ocean breezes ruffled his hair and clothes lightly, but they died down the farther they got from store. He spent the last hour of light piecing together ideas from his notes. A pretty girl, a strange-looking (“Disfigured,” he added) man, and a “prince with golden hair.” The storyteller he sought could have come from Midgar, but that didn’t necessarily mean the story itself did. He’d come across tales with similar properties hundreds of times in his travels, but this one...it was strangely specific. The story was set with princes and castles, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. 

And the “three retainers.” If he could get more details about them…

He smiled to himself. What did it mean if you became part of folklore?

Costa del Sol loomed early the next morning, and he disembarked into the steamy sunshine he hadn’t seen since five years earlier. He remembered the goofy look on Magus’ face when he looked at NekoNeechan, but also the way he’d been sleeping in the chair in the hotel room, despite the large beds. He remembered threatening him for kidnapping NekoNeechan when Grem had been the winner. He’d deserved it. At the same time, though, Magus hadn’t fought back. He hadn’t begged or screamed or cried. He’d accepted his fate willingly, except for maybe explaining his reasoning. He’d tried to save NekoNeechan from a potentially bad situation.

He hurried onwards, feeling unsettled for the first time in a long time.

By the end of the third day, that queasy anxiety in his stomach seemed to have moved in permanently. He’d spoken to almost everyone in town, and, though some knew the story of the prince, maid, and disfigured man, none of them could actually explain where they’d first heard it. All of them agreed on the key points, though: the cruel prince was blond, the disfigured man had not been seen since, and maiden had been stolen away to be locked in “a palace with many windows.”

The portals were both a blessing and a curse, now. He hopped from world to world, visiting every castle in an attempt to identify the location. Figaro was on the list, even though it could sink beneath the sands. Doma, too, and the Ancient Castle, even though they were in ruins. On Gaia there weren’t such things as palaces, unless you counted the Wutai pagodas. Neither Airyglyph nor Aquaria were right—not even the temple. He checked Magus’ own world, though the only castles were Guardia and the ruins of the Citadel (he didn’t hear the wailing ghost, though). 

But when he arrived in Gremio’s own world, he wondered why he hadn’t checked there first. He pored over the map, trying to figure out the most logical path. There were castles left and right, and palaces and villas and things that could, in the right circumstances, be construed as one of those things. Harmonia, Toran, Jowston, Dunan…

And then it smacked him in the face.

Of course. 

The “palace with many windows” was an old fort.

North Window.


	46. Mala Fide

Sephiroth shifted uneasily under Lucca’s gaze. “What?” he asked, picking up his coffee mug. A little liquid sloshed out due to his shaking hands. Quickly, he put it back on the table.

“I can’t believe you slept with him,” she said, shaking her head with undisguised disgust.

“I—why would you think—I would never—”

She peered at him over the rims of her glasses.

“Fine. All right. I slept with Kefka.” Lucca smiled a victorious little smile, but Sephiroth wasn’t done. “And he actually wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was pretty fucking good. Better than I’ve had in a long time, and I’m not exactly celibate, in case that’s the next thing about to come out of your mouth. Don’t think I didn’t see you open it to talk. This is my territory now.” He leaned over the table. “He and I slept together. I would like to continue sleeping with him for the foreseeable future, if only because it’s pretty fun. I’m not asking you to endorse it. I’m not even asking you to particularly like it. I’m telling you that this is how it is because _this is how it is_.”

A long minute of silence passed between them. Sephiroth’s heart raced in his chest; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this passionate and vibrant and alive. He felt almost...human again.

Finally, Lucca stood up. She tossed a few gold pieces on the table and hefted her bag of purchases. “I’ll be back in a few weeks for the next shipment. I hope you’ve gotten this nonsense out of your system by then.” She turned and stalked out before he had a chance to make any sort of clever parting comment.

 _Of course I know what I’m getting into_ , Sephiroth thought sourly as he nursed his drink. It wasn’t even just that he knew the stories, like Lucca apparently did. He knew the _man_ , the one who murdered people for fun and tried to destroy the world. He’d helped steal MC’s laptop to rearrange the universe, for Jenova’s sake! But this Kefka was somehow different. He was younger, so that might’ve been part of it; the esper juice he’d been injected with hadn’t had a chance to eat away at his brain. _And who knows? Maybe a steadying influence in his youth will help keep him from going totally nuts_.

In the following years, Sephiroth would often think back to that night with a rueful smile. He got a job working for the Gestahlian Empire as a soldier, and within days almost was promoted to Lieutenant. On the one hand, he got lucky with some maneuvers, but on the other, he was pretty sure sleeping with Kefka, friend of the Emperor himself, won him some bonus points.

And damn, did they sleep together. Their ranks meant they had private rooms, but Sephiroth ended up using his for getting dressed more than anything else. Kefka’s room was decorated in lurid reds and golds, and he bought an ornate gilded bed adorned with hand-carved roses and soaring cherubs. Sephiroth was willing to admit the plush, down comforter and mountain of pillows were comfortable, but he’d never really been into pink satin or pearls. The crystal chandelier was a little much, too.

Then there were other little things. Sephiroth would be working with his men, trying to get them to learn some new sword maneuvers and such, and Kefka would spend the entire day walking through that specific part of the yard. First, he needed a whetstone. But then the whetstone wouldn’t be the right kind or something? And then someone _else_ would need a whetstone, and oh ho ho! Look at me! And, oh, dear, that’s not how you swing in the Reinbach Riposte! Here, let me show you! And Kefka would come over and grind up against Sephiroth in “demonstration,” and one thing would lead to another and they’d excuse themselves for a quickie in the storage shed.

There was a major part of him that was ashamed at this kind of childish behavior. He sometimes felt incredibly _dirty_ after the act. On the other hand, it was fun and they were good at it. Leo even pulled Sephiroth aside one day and said what a “steadying influence” he was. And every few months Lucca would return to pick up a new shipment or something or other. She’d look at Sephiroth, he’d shake his head, and she’d go home. Everything was fine.

 _Everything is fine_ , he’d tell himself as the weeks progressed. Those scratches from where Kefka’s manicured nails dug into him would heal without leaving scars, as long as he didn’t keep stretching and accidentally opening them. So what if Kefka was into role play and liked being the lady? Sephiroth had always considered himself better as a top anyway. And as long as the makeup stayed strictly in the bedroom, he had no problem letting Kefka try out styles and “make him pretty.” It was all just for fun, and Sephiroth was pretty comfortable with his masculinity. Bruises faded, and they sometimes liked it rough.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Perfectly, deliciously, orgasmically fine.

No need for anyone to worry.

And definitely no need to go back.


	47. Haec Non Bene

Sephiroth could feel Albel’s unabashed stare even with his back turned. He stirred the last of the lemon juice into their tea, taking deep, soothing breaths to still his heart. It beat quick from anxiety, not lust, though he was surprised what time could apparently do to even the most fresh-faced of men. His former competitor was scruffy-faced, his hair plaited into a long tail down his back. His skin had the leathery texture of someone who spent too much time in the sun at once. His eyes, however—his eyes still had a spark of sarcasm and determination. It was those eyes that had convinced Sephiroth that this man, now sitting at the small table in the kitchenette of his quarters, was Albel Nox.

It was those eyes that followed him as he brought the tea to the table in two heavy, ceramic mugs. “It’s good, this stuff. Grows outside of Tzen. Now that they’ve joined up with us, we get plenty of it for cheap.” He walked back to the kitchen. “Do you prefer cream or regular milk in your tea? I have both. Honey and sugar, too. Which do you like best?”

“Plain.”

Sephiroth shrugged and returned the milk to the small icebox. “I’m always fine with a little honey, myself. Sweet, but not too sweet. Local honey, too. There’s a man in Vector who keeps bees for the Emperor. My bo—um, a friend of mine gets it from him.” Sephiroth set a small, pewter jug of amber liquid on the table. “It’s high-quality, of course. Local honey helps with allergies, too, they say.” He sat down, wincing slightly, and poured a little honey in his mug.

Albel sat staring, motionless.

A blush crept up Sephiroth’s neck. “Is...everything okay?” he asked, not sure if he actually wanted to hear the answer.

Slowly, softly, Albel said, “What in the everloving fuck happened to your hair?”

The blush found its way to his forehead. He ran his hand over his close-shorn scalp. “Um...it fits better under a helmet this way?”

The skeptical look that his old acquaintance gave him could’ve melted steel. 

Sephiroth deliberately took a long sip from his mug. There was absolutely no way on this green world he was going to explain what really happened. He was perfectly happy keeping the story of how he’d woken up a few days earlier with a headache induced by drugged wine, naked and unable to move because his wrists were tied to the headboard. When he’d blearily looked over to the dressing table, he’d seen Kefka sitting there in a fur-trimmed chiffon negligee adjusting a mass of silver strands on his head like it was some sort of proto-wig. At that moment, a breeze from the window had kissed Sephiroth’s neck for the first time in probably thirty years.

The shouting had apparently woken platoons in six different barracks.

“Anyway,” Sephiroth continued quickly, “What brings you out this way, Albel? It can’t just be a random trip, since this is technically the past and all.”

Albel tore his eyes from the spiky locks and tented his fingers under his chin. “I need your help with something.”

“Oh?” Sephiroth took another sip.

“NekoNeechan is in trouble.”

The hot tea nearly went down the wrong pipe, and he spluttered, trying to to keep his throat from scalding. He took the napkin Albel offered, coughing thickly into it. When he could finally manage to speak, he said, “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know.”

A half-dozen horrible scenarios flew through Sephiroth’s mind: she was sick and dying, she was caught in a dystopian dumpster fire ruled by some sort of orange-hued dictator, she was skydiving and her parachute wasn’t opening, she’d accidentally eaten some avocado…

The possibilities were endlessly terrifying.

Albel seemed to tire of watching him suffer because he finally said, “I think Gremio has her in North Window. It’s a city on his world. I haven’t heard from her in years, and neither has Lucca. I can’t get ahold of MC, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But I heard this story, and a lot of people are telling it now, about the time we went to Costa del Sol to get her back from Magus. In the story, Grem’s some kind of evil prince keeping her locked up against her will.”

Now it was Sephiroth’s turn to look skeptical. “Sounds like a regular story to me.”

“Like how you got your hair chopped off by your psycho boyfriend.” Albel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just come with me to North Window. We’ll take a quick look. Meet with NekoNeechan. If she’s fine and there willingly, great. If not, we’ll get her out of there.”

Sephiroth looked around the tiny apartment he’d been given upon his promotion to major. He thought about Kefka’s increasingly erratic behavior. He thought about his long, silky, silver locks that would never again waft enticingly in the wind.

“Yeah, let’s go see what we can find,” he said.


	48. Cogito Ergo Sum Stultus Agnoscis

“So, then what?” Magus asked. The second of the vile potions had worked their chemical magic, and he’d managed to sit up without passing out. His chest ached and his bones felt like they would be better if they were outside his body, but he continued sipping at the slimy concoction (a “tonic,” which tasted like a watermelon and a tank of gasoline had a hate-baby) Sephiroth had given him. “So you both just came here and got me? What about NekoNeechan?”

Sephiroth and Albel exchanged a glance. “No, we went to North Window first,” the shaggy-haired warrior said slowly.

Magus flipped his hand in a gesture for them to continue. He regretted it immediately, and slurped down another gelatin-like lump of tonic.

Sephiroth stared firmly at the floor. “Gremio had it booby trapped.”

“Like…?”

“He’s not afraid of plants anymore, apparently. He seems to like them large and spiky and shooting acid.”

“And not the drug kind of acid,” Albel said. “Before you get any ideas.”

“I wasn’t going to…” Magus protested.

“Anyway,” Sephiroth interjected, “we managed to get pretty close to the fort, but the plants around it started fighting back. That’s how Albel’s hair got short—some sort of razor-y plant snagged it, so he chopped it off. We decided we had to find another way in. The ocean wasn’t any better. We got a boat in Kuskus, but seaweed snagged the rudder and we nearly drowned.”

“Mmm-hmm. Tell me when you get to the part where Sephiroth loses an eye. I’d like to hear that part,” Magus said, taking another sip of the tonic and leaning forward.

A hint of a shadenfreude-y smile crossed Albel’s lips. “I borrowed a few dragons for a song from the Dragon Knights so we could come in from above. That one—” he jerked his thumb back at Sephiroth, “—didn’t time his landing so well.”

“We were jumping at night. I couldn’t see,” explained the one-eyed man. “And besides, your arm thing fell off when you snagged it on the saddle.”

“It was designed with a quick release so that, in certain situations, it would not encumber me.”

“Pfft, ‘encumber’ you. Please. Which one of us is supposedly trained to do things with dragons? Hmm?”

“So you couldn’t even get close enough to see her.” Magus gently crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at them both.

“Well, I saw her. Before I lost my eye, I mean,” Sephiroth said. “I was falling, and I saw a girl with long brown hair watching out one of the windows. She mouthed my name...at least, I think it was my name...and then tried to open them. It looked like they were barred shut, though. Then I fell on some bouncy weeds and got knocked over the wall of the fort into some cacti.”

“...Cacti.”

“ _ Really prickly _ cacti.” Sephiroth sulked. “It jabbed me in the eye, and it really hurt, okay? My eye’s all scratched up, and until it’s all healed, I can’t use it.”

Magus took a deep, soothing breath. “It’s all plants, right?” The men nodded. “Then why not just burn them all down?”

“I don’t have any materia.”

“Then go get some in...I dunno. One of the towns that sells it. Gaia, right? It must be a dime a dozen for materia,” Magus said as reasonably and non-patronizingly as he could manage. It wasn’t much, but he really tried.

Sephiroth muttered something incomprehensible.

“Hmm?”

“...They won’t sell any to me.”

“And why is that?” It took every ounce of concentration to keep from smacking him upside his closely-shorn head. From the expression on Albel’s face, it looked like he was using his concentration to keep from laughing.

“...Because I burn things down too often…” If Sephiroth had been standing, he would’ve been digging the toe of his combat boot into the wooden floorboards.

A harsh snicker snuck out of Albel’s mouth. 

“And what about you?” Magus asked him pointedly.

He shrugged his good shoulder. “No arm, no magic. That’s one of the things Lucca is working on right now for me.” Before Magus could make another exasperated remark, he leaned forward. “Look. I know you’re probably feeling lousy right now. Those potions legitimately taste like someone died making them, and then they just tossed the body in the fermenting barrel with it. But the only reason you’re  _ able _ to feel anything right now is because we saved you. You, Magus, owe us.”

As much as they’d gotten other things wrong, Magus had to admit that, at least about that, they were right.


	49. Disce Quasi Semper Victurus Vive

Magus was sipping his third round of tonic—cheeseburgers and dog breath this time—when Lucca came into the room with a small bag. “Just dropping this off. Feeling up to this tomorrow?”

The magician shrugged. “Do I really have a choice?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I guess I’d better be.” He scratched his arm around the bandage. “Question.”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t Seph just drink this stuff to fix his eye instead of going the old-school ‘time heals all things’ route? I know it tastes like ass, but I would think that seeing is...y’know...kinda important.”

“Oh. That.” Lucca smiled, a vaguely mischievous twisting of the lips. “He’s allergic.”

Magus snorted, then guffawed. “You’re kidding me.”

“I tried giving him some shortly after the accident, and after about two sips he started wheezing and turning blue. One death and one quick time-travel trip later, I confirmed with him that he’s allergic to bottled medicines.” She began sorting through a black bag of bandages and syringes.

“Yeah.” Something sparked in Magus’ memory as he took another slurp of his tonic. He swallowed hard, wincing. “Actually, Lucca, I have another question.”

She pulled out a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around his upper arm. “Well, I’m a bit of a captive audience right now, since I’m supposed to be checking on you. I guess you can ask a few more. Just be careful. Too many, and I’ll start jabbing you unnecessarily with needles.”

He shuddered at the thought. “Actually, I was just wondering...back in the beginning of all this craziness, remember how we went back to the contest?”

“That was, I believe, how it all began.” 

“And we changed the stuff. The envelopes.” He winced as the cuff tightened. “Because Locke took the wrong one, and then I was onstage, and then you switched the others. Right? That’s how it went?”

She nodded, unwrapping the cuff.

“Well…”

“Just ask your question, Magus. You might as well.”

He looked past her at the scuffed wall. “Lucca, how did  _ you _ remember everything? I got back to my time with Grem, and he was practically dying. I legit thought I was going to have to send out invites for the funeral. I mean, luckily he didn’t, but it was bad. But you remembered. I remembered. How is that?”

The scientist took the empty tonic bottle from his hands and set it aside before beginning to futz with one of his bandages. “I remember because I  _ make  _ myself remember.” Gently she began probing the bones in his wrist and hand. “You interacted with people in the past, yes?”

“Yeah. Ow.”

“Then don’t move it. You interacted with people. I interacted with objects. Between the two of us, we affected things by being there when we weren’t before. Thus, we remember.”

“Ugh—sorry. So how didn’t Gremio remember?”

“Well, did he talk to anyone? Did he move anything he wasn’t supposed to? Those are the two options that would allow him to recall the way things were before.”

Magus closed his eyes, ignoring the ache caused by Lucca’s fingers on his healing body.  He’d shoved Gremio in that room when Locke arrived, so Locke hadn’t seen him. He could’ve run into someone, but probably not, since he and Lucca had met up. And then he hadn’t actually messed with anything on the table that Magus could recall… “So he was affected when he came forward because he hadn’t done anything in the past.”

“Nothing of notice, anyway. He breathed, but that’s not enough.” She began messing with the bandage on Magus’ leg. “If he’d been the one to pick up an envelope or if he’d gotten caught by Locke, too—”

“Then he wouldn’t have been dying when we got back.”

“He wouldn’t have been affected by the change,” she confirmed. She poked at the pale scars on his leg where, according to Albel, bone had been poking through earlier. “It’s possible the future you returned to would have been completely different from the one you saw and the one from which you came.”

Magus sat back. A completely different future. One where Gremio had won, but he wasn’t dying. One where they weren’t roommates because of NekoNeechan’s death. One where he was thrown from a window, ostensibly to his own death.

Futures, futures everywhere, but not the one he’d lost.


	50. Futura Praeteritis Diebus

Lucca spoke excitedly outside the door. The steel surface sloughed off paint in huge, lead-based sheets and the whole thing looked roughly eighty thousand years old, but her hand held the knob with the reverent awe of a parent with their first child. “This,” she said in hushed tones, “this is something worthy of your attention. Beyond this door is something I’ve kept safe for years. Something I helped perfect in my younger days and have kept hidden away from everyone in case a time like this should arise.”

“Even MC?” Magus asked, scratching absently at his elbow. The x-rays showed that his wounds were completely healed, but they still itched something awful.

“Especially MC,” Lucca said with an enthusiastic nod. “If she was aware of what I had back here, she would take it away in a heartbeat. This, though. This thing is how you get NekoNeechan back.”

The magician shifted uncomfortably. He’d rarely seen Lucca this cheerful or worked up, and he wasn’t completely convinced she wasn’t losing her own sanity from seeing all those alternate futures.

Albel didn’t seem quite as concerned. His newly-remodeled arm gleamed in the fluorescent light in the tunnel, and he clenched his fist with a steely clank. “Just get to it. Every moment we waste here in your stupid ‘tension building exercise’ is a minute that NekoNeechan is stuck in that prison.”

“And I need to head back, too, after this,” Sephiroth added. “I know you can time travel, Lucca, but I need to make up these past few days to Kefka so he doesn’t burn down Vector trying to get me.”

The woman scowled at each of them in turn. “No flair for drama or sense of understanding for the things I went through making sure that, should it become necessary, this be here for you. All the gold I spent on supplies to build this whole underground room for it, and a big door so you can get it out easily, and—”

“And we’re extremely grateful for everything you’ve gone through and done for us, Lucca,” Magus said. “But I still think our time is better spent actually looking at whatever is behind door number one.”

“Fine.” She turned and twisted the knob of the door. “I give you—”

The door opened with a rusty creak, and the hallway flooded with light. The men shielded their eyes with gasps of pain, their worlds shrinking down to darkness and floating afterimages.

“—the _Epoch_!”

Magus lowered his hand first. Sitting in the center of the too-bright room was the gleaming white enameled body of the time machine. Its wings curved backwards like a falcon’s, their black and gold forms shining proudly. The glass hatch stood open. Inside, the trio of leather seats beckoned, and the panels were lit up and ready to go. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “It’s actually the _Epoch_.” He turned to Lucca. “How the fuck did you keep this from MC?”

She beamed. “I told you! I originally just parked it a few days in the past. I’m sure she thought to look for it, but she could never find it. I always put it where she wouldn’t think to look. That is, until the garage was finished. It’s pretty much MC-proof.”

“‘MC-proof’?” Sephiroth repeated. “How’d you manage that?”

“Oh, mostly by her not knowing it exists.” The inventor waved her hand dismissively. “Can’t find something if you don’t know to look for it.”

Albel walked over to the _Epoch_ , and the others followed him. He bent, looking into the cockpit. “How do you make it go? I’m assuming it’s mechanical.”

“It is. And that’s why we have Magus here.”

The magician whirled to face her. “What? Why me?”

“Because you’ve been in this thing before. You’ve flown it.” Her hands were on her hips.

“Well, yeah.” He scratched the back of his head. “But that was, I dunno, _years_ ago. Back when I traveled with everyone here. You and Crono and Marle and Ayla and Robo and...yeah.”

“So you’re more qualified to fly it than anyone else here besides me, and I’m not going.” She clapped her hands together. “And it’s about time you left.” She paused, then giggled. “I made a joke. I can’t believe I made a joke. I’m just so happy that you’re finally all doing this!”

The others seemed nonplussed by this behavior, but Magus had an uneasy nausea in the pit of his stomach. He watched them clamor into the back two seats, settling in and strapping their harnesses around their shoulders. “It’s...we’re going to be okay, right?” he asked Lucca softly.

“Why wouldn’t you be? You’ve done great so far! Just fly to the right portal and go through. You shouldn’t even need to travel through time.” She patted his shoulder.

He blinked at the _Epoch_. “I think I’d rather try the dragon thing, or maybe just walk up to the castle and start setting shit on fire.”

“You can try that if this doesn’t work. Now go, go!” She thumped him on the back, pushing him forward.

As he approached the machine, he wondered how far he’d get if he bolted before someone caught him. _Not far enough_ , he decided.

He climbed in.


	51. Venenum Hederam, Succrescunt Sentes, Et Insidias Fugis Venus, Heu Me

The second the fortress of North Window appeared in the windscreen of the Epoch, Magus dove for the ground. Almost before the vehicle hit the waving grass of the field, he popped the hatch. Cool, clean, fresh air came pouring in, chasing out the vile stench from the back seat. He pressed the brake, hit the “off” button, and crawled out of his seat. 

The grass tickled his cheeks as he sucked in huge lungfuls of sweet, refreshing air. Albel gasped nearby, then rolled on his back. Magus followed suit, breathing deeply while puffy cumulus clouds scudded across a perfect autumn sky. A wedge of geese called to one another as they soared above them.

They both focused on the honking to drown out the sounds of retching from within the Epoch.

The sun had lengthened shadows somewhat by the time Sephiroth managed to pour himself from his seat to the ground below. His knees wobbled with the uncertainty of a newborn foal’s, and he clung to the golden ladder for dear life. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve as his skin slowly lost its greenish tinge. “I am so, so sorry, guys,” he finally said in a voice thick and hoarse.

Magus looked up from his canteen, then snuck a glance at Albel. “Was it this bad when you came in on the dragons?”

“Possibly? He could hardly keep up, which is why he missed the landing zone.” The storyteller shoveled a forkful of canned pasta into his mouth.

Sephiroth probably would’ve blushed if he weren’t so pasty with nausea. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it’d be this bad. I’ll clean it up once we’ve rescued NekoNeechan.”

“You’d better,” Magus replied. He capped the canteen and stood. “You do realize Lucca will actually murder you if you don’t.”

“Right.” The soldier took a deep breath, closing his good eye for a moment. When he opened it, he asked, “What’s next?”

Albel pulled a map from one of the pouches at his waist and handed it over to Magus. “If we landed where we were supposed to, we should be a few miles out from North Window.”

He took it and opened it up. “And how far out does this impenetrable barrier of foliage extend?”

“I dunno,” he replied around a mouthful of sweet tomato sauce and cold spaghetti. “A mile, maybe? Two? We couldn’t ever really get close enough to measure.”

“It starts as poison ivy and poison sumac, stuff like that,” Sephiroth said. A few swigs of water had done him good, and natural color was beginning to return to his cheeks and lips. “There’s a line of brambles, then some man-eating plants—think giant fly traps or ochus, if you have them in your world—”

“I don’t, but I know of man-eating plants,” Magus said. “But go on.”

“Well, and then close to the walls are cacti and other spiny, poke-y, pointy things.”

“As well you know,” snickered Albel.

“ _ And _ the walls are covered in more poison ivy and other climbing, skin-burning plants. Inside the walls are springy plants and vines that act like either tentacles that suck you in or trampolines that bounce you out. There’s more bitey plants and spiky plants, too, and poisonous plants on the walls. No clue what’s inside, but probably something awful.”

Magus blinked at the man. So many defences, all plant-based. Gremio certainly  _ had  _ gotten over his phobia, if this was the case. Although, he’d been about to take NekoNeechan on a date in the woods, and there were lots of living plants there...was it possible he’d been getting over his phobia for awhile?

Could it be possible he’d always been over it, but he’d kept it around as a way of garnering sympathy from NekoNeechan?

Nope. No way. Too subtle and subterfuge-y for Gremio. Gremio was a hundred thousand percent surface. What you saw was what you got. Handsome, yes. Goofy and stammer-y around those who he liked. Determined. A great chef. Compassionate. Wonderful with kids. Protective of those he cared about. 

If he was using plants to guard the castle, then it was because he’d decided that the best way to keep NekoNeehan safe (in his mind) was by using those plants to keep intruders out. It was like the story of the sleeping maiden from his childhood in Zeal. The only person who could wake her up was the commoner from one of the scattered Earthbound villages, since she was stuck in a prison of in the frozen wastes. None of the Enlightened ones would go down to save her, which is what her evil stepmother was counting on. The Earthbound one, though, had rescued her, and the maiden had returned home and fulfilled the prophecy surrounding her birth. 

Magus had to believe Gremio thought he was doing the right thing. Otherwise, it just meant that his best friend was a major asshole. Try as he might, he just couldn’t picture that.

Albel and Sephiroth were staring at him, and he blinked. “What?”

“Are we still planning on burning this shit down or what?” Albel asked.

“Let’s go light it up,” Magus agreed. He squared his shoulders and began to walk.


	52. Flamma Ignis Effulgens

The blaze rose from Magus’ fingertips with a familiar warmth. It’d been so long since he’d used his magic, he felt. Not since he’d truly used it. Ozzie had been...a distraction. A minor breeze compared to his full power. A show to scare him. Even the disgusting decorations and things of Ozzie’s that he’d destroyed in the middle of the courtyard of the White Palace had been consumed in a traditional fire. He was trying to rebuild his reputation. He needed the cooperation of his neighbors. Neighbors who would be frightened by the raw power that he would otherwise demonstrate. So no, he’d just used torches and kindling then to create a pale imitation of what he knew he himself could do.

But this heat, the way the flames flickered like an excited friend, this was familiar. He remembered suppressing his fire abilities so Sephiroth could shine during the Hot Date competition, but he’d always had a fondness for the most unpredictable of his magical affinities. He wriggled his flame-tipped fingers. 

The massive wall of vegetation—the first of such walls, if he recalled correctly from their flyover—hissed and snapped at his movement. Giant blossoms of varying hues seemed to chortle as thick, white sap oozed from their cones. One, the bloody red of uncooked beef, snapped almost playfully at his lavender hair is it blew in the magical wind. Others, blue like veins under porcelain and yellow as a jaundiced eye, nuzzed closer to the dancing flames. Moths entranced by moonlight.

A wicked excitement ignited a broad smile on Magus’ face.

He pulled the flickering fire into his palm, shaping it with the other hand into a perfect sphere. The core was a blinding white that ebbed through the spectrum to a cheery, cherry red at the edges. A few tiny sparks skipped across the surface like fairies.

The plants drew even closer. Their heads bobbed, watching it. Mesmerized.

Magus raised his palm close to his lips. His hair floated around his sharp cheekbones in the warmth wafting from the orb.

He pursed his lips and whispered, “Burn.”

The fire in his palm burst forth like a whirlwind. The menacing plants didn’t have a chance to even recoil before they were enveloped in a wave of twisting, roaring flame. They shrieked as fire consumed their leaves, blackening them as they curled into ash. The tropical petals dried and dropped into the sea of fire assaulting the roots, and the heads of the flowers turned towards the sky in an agonized plea. Their menace was completely lost.

All this happened in seconds; by the time Magus closed his hand and dropped it to his side, the magical flame had vanished back into the ether from whence he’d pulled it. The ground still smoked and sizzled, but and there was a twenty-foot gap in the wall of vegetation where the plants had been completely burned away. At the edges of the gap, plants had been singed with varying degrees of intensity. The leaves of the closest ones were charred to crumbling, and the heavy stems and interwoven vines were pockmarked with blisters oozing greenish-white ichor. A breeze off the nearby ocean, icy in the wake of the searing flames, swept away the worst of the smoke and dampened the last of the still-glowing embers. 

Magus took a final, deep breath, inhaling the acrid scent of the destruction he’d caused.

Behind him, he heard boots rustling through the verdant, ankle-deep grass. The sound made his heart sink slightly. He’d never liked being disturbed while working, and using his magic had reminded him exactly how much he loved it. It was an addict’s love for the bottle, and he wanted nothing more than his next swallow. With these... _ interlopers  _ behind him, he’d need to maintain control. Briefly he wondered whether he could easily subdue them. Perhaps another fireball— 

It was Albel’s hand on Magus’ elbow that snapped him from his trance. He blinked and looked around, feeling for all the world like he’d been awoken from a strange and terrible dream. The gap in the plant wall caught his eye, and he struggled not to gape. 

“NekoNeechan is still in there,” Albel said quietly, almost gently. Magus looked into his red eyes and saw an understanding there, a kindred spirit. Someone who understood that the magic flowed through one’s veins with the seductive power of a drug, and someone who’d made a deliberate choice to abstain.

Like fragments of dreams, memories of destruction surfaced in Magus’ head: entire towns burning; people subdued, carting black-veined marble from the nearby mountains; gargoyles leering from slate-shingled turrets a thousand feet over the rolling countryside. An evil facsimile of his glistening White Palace.  _ But _ … 

He blinked and stumbled as Albel guided him towards the gap. “Two more of these walls,” he said quietly. “Then the stone walls of the castle and the courtyard. Will you be all right?”

“I...will.” Magus steeled himself against the emotions roiling within himself and freed his arm from his companion’s grasp. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, he heard Sephiroth gasp, “Cool…”


End file.
